An End To All Things
by OrangeShipper
Summary: A sequel to Of Course It's The End, How Could It Not Be? - They know they've made a foolish mistake, but still they can't regret it. It was the end between them, they knew that, but what they'd shared would make the lives they must endure easier to bear. At least, that was what they told themselves... for having known each other, how could they bear it now? AU from 2x08.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _GREETINGS, MY FRIENDS!_

_Oh it feels like a dreadfully long time since I've published anything here. I'm sorry. _

_May I present a new WIP - I'm not sure how long it will turn out to be, but I'm quite excited about it. It's a sequel to my post S2/CS fanfic, **Of Course It's The End, How Could It Not Be?** - which I do advise you read before embarking on this! I'd intended OCITE to be a standalone, and really, I'd like you to consider it a standalone, still. Of course this fic will continue from it, but it's only one possible way their story might have gone. I'd often continued the story kind of self-indulgently in my imagination, with various melodramatic showdowns etc etc, but eventually I was persuaded to form it into some kind of sense and order and write it! So here we are. _

_If you haven't read Of Course It's The End, How Could It Not Be? already, then very simply it's based on the premise that after 2x08, Mary married Carlisle as she'd said she would in 2x07, and Matthew left to live and work in Manchester, unable to remain at Downton. When he returned for the Christmas season to see the family, lingering feelings (their own and Carlisle's jealousy of Mary's affection) came to a head and they slept together, knowing that there was no way out for Mary. They accepted that it was the end, and determined not to see each other again, for the sake of them all. _

_Thanks to **Pemonynen** and **EOlivet** for their invaluable creative input and support!  
_

_With that, enjoy...!_

* * *

**An End To All Things**

**Chapter One**

Several hours had passed before Isobel ventured to see him. She was too angry with him at first, and after that she simply had no idea of what to say to him. But she could not let it go with nothing said at all, and… when the first waves of bitter disappointment in him began to pass over, she remembered more clearly the anguish in his face. Whatever he had done, however foolish, he was still her son and her priority was still, always, his care.

"Matthew..." She knocked quietly at his locked bedroom door. There was silence, and she sighed. "I've asked Mrs Bird to hold off on dinner, until you feel like it."

At last she heard his quiet, muttered 'thank you'. But that was all.

She tried again, more directly. "Will you open the door? I think we should–"

"No. Not yet."

"Then I'll just talk through the door, so if you don't mind all the staff hearing–"

"For God's sake, Mother!"

The key turned in the lock after a moment, and when Isobel opened the door she saw Matthew slumping into a chair by the window, his elbows resting on his knees and his face shadowed by the darkness in the room. He looked… desolate.

Isobel's heart reflexively ached with sympathy for her son, though she hardened against it.

"Mary was here," she said. It was more a statement than a question; for she had heard their softened voices, after she'd heard… less restrained sounds, that she wished desperately to forget for the shame it caused her.

Matthew leaned despondently back, glaring into darker corners. He didn't deserve any light.

"At the house, yes. Not… in here," he muttered, shaking his head. No, she hadn't come into his bedroom, or his bed. It would hardly have been _proper_. His body burned with shame and memory, his own thoughts mocking him.

"I see," Isobel nodded. "But… you did..." Unable to voice what she knew to be true, she watched as Matthew turned his face to her at last. They saw the dark understanding in each other's eyes, before he passed a hand over his face as if it might cover his shame, lowering his sullen gaze to the floor.

"You can't possibly understand." His words were heavy, laden with the weight of despair at himself and his actions. And how could he possibly speak of it, with his mother of all people? His voice rose bitterly. "And before you berate my stupidity, please, believe that I am _well_ aware of my own shortcomings."

"I should hope so!" Isobel cried. "How _could_ you be so foolish, Matthew?"

"Mother…"

"No don't '_Mother'_ me, you have gone beyond that." Her earlier fury came flooding back, and she bristled against him. "To disregard so – wantonly! – your own honour, _Mary's_ honour – she is married, Matthew, do you have any comprehension of–"

"Of course I do!" he shouted, rising and pacing away from the sting of her accusations. "For God's sake, I know that! Do you think..." His shoulders dropped, and he turned to her, despair written into his every limb. He shook his head, helpless. "Do you think I haven't been painfully aware of that, in every moment since I came back? As if Carlisle wasn't already taking every chance he could to make sure I'm well aware that she _belongs_ to him, but–"

"He is her husband," Isobel cut his pitying speech short sternly. "You make it sound as though he owns her, when you have no right at all to–"

"I told you, you can't understand!" Matthew snapped, his eyes gleaming in anger. Oh, he knew that well enough… He had no right to complain, he had no right to _her. The least of anyone_. "She doesn't love him," he finished quietly. It was all he could say, though he knew it was no justification.

Isobel folded her arms, shutting him out. "Perhaps she doesn't, and perhaps she loves you still instead, but none of that matters now. She made her choice."

"It wasn't her _choice_!" Matthew began, and then faltered. Would it even help, for his mother to know the truth? He doubted it. It didn't make a difference anyway, it was still _wrong_, Mary's marriage and what they had done. It was all still wrong, and it was all still his fault. "If she'd had the liberty to choose, then… Well, things would have been different."

His argument convinced neither of them.

"Did she have another choice?" Isobel challenged him next. "You hardly gave her another, and you certainly can't excuse yourselves now! You never _think_, do you, about the consequences of your actions?"

"Evidently not."

"And if there _are_ consequences, will you face them? Or will you run from them, and hide from them, as you always have?"

Matthew's lips parted to protest, but… how could he? She was right, he always ran, and left others suffering in his wake. A wave of wretched self-pity washed over him so strongly that he sank under its weight, sitting and dropping his head into his hands. Any strength he'd had, he'd borne from Mary, and the last of it had left him with her parting kiss.

"It will be easier… for everyone… if I go," he said at last, brokenly.

"For everyone, or for you?" Isobel frowned. She was in no mood to be sympathetic to him, not yet. As proud as she had been of him, throughout his life… in this moment, knowing what he'd done and how poorly he would deal with it, it was forgotten.

He drew a shuddering, difficult breath. "For Mary. For her marriage, however wretched it is… she may get on with it as best she can, without me here to cause difficulty. Especially now."

Slowly, Isobel considered this, and accepted it with a slight nod. But one thought, one consequence, still burned in her mind… One that she hardly dared to consider, and could only hope that Matthew had.

"And what if there's a child?" she solemnly asked.

Matthew stilled, and a calmness settled somewhere in the depth of his pained expression.

"Then… Mary will have something by which to remember me, always."

"Oh, Matthew…" The thought of it was so sad, and accepted with such a helpless resignation, that Isobel's heart at last began to soften. That her own son, her darling son, might never have the chance to love his own child as she could him, broke her heart. She laid a hand upon his shoulder, softly, and the tears in his eyes that had been held so fiercely in check these past few hours at last began to break from him as he clung to what little support she could give him.

"You needn't worry about any awkwardness with the family, on Christmas day. Mary won't come, she'll… claim to be ill I suppose," Matthew explained in a quiet, shaken voice. "Because it would have been too difficult, for everyone… It would have been even before we… It was what she came for, to tell me. To say goodbye. She'd already decided, you see."

"I think so, yes," Isobel murmured softly. Her free hand began to rub across his back, in familiar patterns as she'd done to soothe him when he was young, easing the tension of his trembling sobs before they could begin. "That's probably best, now."

"And then I'll go, and be no more trouble to her. I know… I know I've already caused her trouble enough."

His shoulders heaved into a sigh, and Isobel kissed the top of his head.

"Perhaps. But never with intention, at least, and Mary knows that, I'm sure."

Matthew shook his head. "She does, at least I hope she does. God, I'm so sorry… for all of it."

"So you should be, and I'm glad to hear it," his mother said with kindness. "Still, what's done is done, however foolish it might have been. You can only do your best now to move forward from it with as much grace and sense as you can manage."

Grace, and sense? Matthew didn't suppose that he possessed either quality in much measure, but… he would do his best, if it were even possible to move forward from this… It must be. Only short hours ago, Mary had been here, and they'd been together, and he'd known for the briefest moment what heights of bliss and fulfilment it was possible to feel. His life now, he knew, would be nothing after that… After knowing her, and having her, in that most intimate way to feel the very completeness of her love, he could be nothing more than a shadow of himself.

What an utter fool he had been.

* * *

Christmas day dawned bright and clear. Matthew rose, and washed, and dressed, his every movement automatic and done without feeling or thought as it was easier _not_ to feel or think. Everything was easier that way. He almost laughed, to compare Downton to his life in the trenches in even the slightest way, when once the two had been the most far removed of existences; but it seemed somehow apt. To survive in the trenches had required a kind of numbness of body and soul, for his daily protection and sanity. And now, to survive this Christmas day at Downton required the same thing.

At least Mary would not be there, but still he must face her father, and maybe her husband as well unless he remained with her… and Matthew didn't know how else to cope.

All of it was going perfectly well. He managed to greet the Earl with a warm smile and a handshake, fooling himself into believing he could do so because he'd soon be doing them all a favour by leaving their lives in peace. He smiled graciously as the family exchanged gifts, and politely expressed his disappointment that Mary (and Richard, he supposed he must say) weren't there to receive theirs too.

"Oh, you needn't be sorry for that," Cora assured him pleasantly. "There'll be another day, won't there."

"Well–"

"Of course there will!" Isobel smiled, interjecting before Matthew had a chance to announce his determination to leave Downton the moment he could. It was Christmas day, and there was no need to face such things just yet, nor the questions his intention would inevitably spur. Matthew pursed his lips, but remained quiet, thankful for Edith who broke the disquieting silence that had fallen.

"Who's coming to the shoot on New Year's Day, Papa? Have you invited Sir Anthony Strallan?"

Robert glanced up from the luncheon table. "Oh, the usual guns, not too many chaps. I did invite Sir Anthony, but he declined… You'll be coming, won't you Matthew?"

He took a slow sip of his wine, taking advantage of the moment before answering and giving a firm look to his mother not to interfere this time.

"I'm afraid not," he said simply. "As nice as it would be, and I thank you for the invitation, I've commitments in Manchester that I must get back to."

He held his breath, releasing it at last when Robert nodded his understanding, smiling sadly. There, he'd done it, there'd been no questions asked…

"Of course I understand, my dear boy. Though I'm sorry to hear it."

"As are we," a chill voice came from the library doorway in the moment before Carson announced the arrival of Sir Richard and Lady Mary Carlisle. Matthew stiffened in horror, his eyes wide as Richard smiled without warmth. "It's a great shame, but if you must go so soon…"

"Mary!" Cora exclaimed with a smile, rising with eagerness to greet her daughter and her husband. "We hadn't expected you, I thought you weren't feeling well…"

"I wasn't," Mary shrugged coolly, leaning forward to accept her mother's kiss and embrace. "I'm still not quite, to tell the truth, but better enough – it is Christmas day, after all."

She smiled faintly, and amid the greetings of her family she tried desperately to seek Matthew's gaze, to tell him somehow that she'd tried her best, but hadn't been able to put up any more excuse in the face of Richard's relentless enthusiasm to come… but it was impossible, his eyes were anywhere but on her, and it didn't surprise her. The evident discomfort that riddled his demeanour echoed in every nerve of herself, as memories of being together with him flooded her mind. She shivered.

"Why don't you sit by the fire, dear," Richard soothed her with a hand on her back, steering her towards the settee where Matthew still hovered uncomfortably. Was he doing it on purpose? Mary flared with irritation at the falseness of her husband's care. "I'd hate for your chill to worsen after I've forced you out after all." She could hardly refuse when everyone was looking at her with such concern, and tightened her arms around herself as she sat down. She wasn't at all surprised when in the same moment, Matthew stood up more purposefully, but Richard accosted him before he could excuse himself.

"Merry Christmas, Matthew," he said coolly, and held out his hand. "I'm glad Mary recovered enough for us to come – I know she'd have been sorry to miss you – wouldn't you, dear?" He turned to Mary, without releasing the tightness of his grip on Matthew's hand that made the younger man more uncomfortable with every second.

She glanced up. "I would've," she agreed quietly – what else could she say?

Matthew swallowed uncomfortably, meeting her eyes for the first time and painfully aware of their family around them as heat prickled at the back of his neck. He was numb and hot and terrified and Mary was _there_, with her husband. He tugged his hand free of Carlisle's and muttered,

"It's lovely to see you of course, Merry Christmas." His voice was flat and shook as he made his escape back to the luncheon table, picking at the food distractedly, allowing the others to take up the conversation with the newly-arrived couple.

Mary wasn't supposed to be here. They weren't supposed to see each other now, they couldn't, it was too difficult… He couldn't look at her and not think of what they'd done, remember how she'd felt and how wrong but how wonderfully, wonderfully right it had been; only there was her husband standing beside her and the heat in his veins chilled. It was supposed to have been the last memory they shared together, that bliss, that kiss… but now they were together again in this nightmare.

He didn't realise that Violet was hovering beside him until she spoke.

"Dear me, you look as if you've seen a ghost. Let's not pretend we're in a Dickens' novel, even if it is Christmas," she said with her usual indifference.

"Sorry," he cleared his throat and straightened, trying to smile. "I suppose there are some things on my mind, but… I'll be back in Manchester soon enough to deal with them."

Violet raised an eyebrow. "So your troubles lie in Manchester, I see. Then I wonder why they're concerning you so now? They'll wait, surely, while you're on holiday."

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at avoiding my problems," Matthew chuckled humourlessly. Not when his largest problem was himself, certainly.

"Well do try, for all our sakes. At least for today," Violet sniffed, and Matthew wondered if he only imagined her looking at Mary as she spoke. He'd certainly try… Whether or not he'd succeed, with Carlisle baiting him as he was sure to, was questionable to say the least.

* * *

When the telephone rang late in the afternoon, it was an unexpected blessing. Released from the pressing discomfort of company if even for only a minute or so, Matthew hurried out to the hall.

But the conversation was brief, unpleasant, and when he replaced the receiver it was with a heavy sigh. His fingers stroked over the cool metal as he considered the news… until a soft voice snapped him from his thoughts.

"I hope that was nothing too serious," Mary announced herself quietly, without ceremony, "but your expression seems to suggest otherwise."

"Mary…" He tensed, fighting the urge to reach for her, to touch her. Glancing behind her, he faltered, unsure of what to say to her and breathlessly expecting this moment's unexpected solitude to be broken.

"It's alright, Sir Richard has already gone up to change. He's causing a fuss about having a different valet, or something." She looked down at her hands, idly twisting her wedding ring.

"Ah."

At last, she looked at him, her gaze fixing him in her presence.

"I know you weren't expecting to see me today, and I'm sorry … There were only so many excuses I could muster, I'm afraid–"

"Don't – apologise, Mary. Please." His lip twitched into a smile and he shifted, almost towards her, aching for her and hardly able to bear it. "I know we'd said goodbye, but… I'm not sorry to have seen you again. Only that it's so damned… difficult…"

"I know." Her eyes fluttered closed, the memory of him shivering through her, and she drew a breath. When she felt his fingers clasp firmly around her own, she looked up and felt almost faint with the intensity of his touch and his gaze.

"I'll go," he said softly, almost earnestly. "Now, it's alright. I won't stay for dinner… I can't."

"Matthew, it's Christmas day. You must–"

"I can't." It almost made him smile to feel her slender fingers tightening with his, her body testifying to her words that she couldn't let him go. But he didn't, he couldn't, and it hurt. "I can't spoil it for everyone else, for you–"

"Matthew–"

"My darling…" A sigh trembled from his lips, the distance between them closing as they sought each other's strength. "I'd rather leave you now, properly, than to have to say goodbye again with everyone there. With…"

"I know," she whispered again, her heart breaking with his. They'd already suffered this once, and to do so again was unbearable…

"Does he suspect, do you think?"

She gave a little shrug. "No, I don't think so."

"Good," he breathed in relief. "When you came this afternoon… I'm afraid I was being terribly obvious about it all. Mary, I simply couldn't–"

Laughing, she pressed a finger quickly to his lips. "You were being terribly obvious. But I think, if anything, he's taken your discomfort around me to mean that his nasty little plan worked. You're obviously so horrified by my indiscretion that you can't bear to be near me."

The irony of it struck Matthew, and he chuckled. Nothing could be further from the truth, how he longed to be near her… Not merely to be near her, but with her, joined with her and… But such thoughts were no use, and he forced them away.

"I'm glad, for your sake." He smiled, and took a step back, forcing some distance between them in false propriety as their hands fell limply by their sides. "Anyway, by chance I seem to have been granted a way out… I'm afraid an old associate – well, an old friend – isn't at all well. That was the telephone call… so as it happens I need to go to London as soon as I can." He didn't mention that it was Lavinia's father, it didn't seem right.

"I'm sorry," she frowned. "But even so you couldn't go this evening."

"It's enough, I think. I need to be ready to leave first thing in the morning, and at least it reasons away my mood for the afternoon, a little – I hope so anyway."

Slowly, Mary nodded. Silence hung, thick in the air between them, neither willing to make the move to say goodbye. It was too difficult to do again, when they longed for – when they _knew_ – so much more.

With a deep breath, she straightened more purposefully.

"I should go and change for dinner. If you hurry to the library you can say goodbye before the others go up."

"Yes, alright."

A weak smile flickered between them, and Mary turned to go, unable to bear the weight of everything between them for another moment. If they didn't say it, they could pretend, believe that this wasn't the end of everything… But his fingers shot out and clung to hers, halting her as the dressing gong rang, and he knew they had only seconds before the family and servants would start to move.

He was desperately close to her, filling her vision with the piercing blue of his eyes and his darling face. "I'll miss you," he whispered breathlessly. "I'll think of you, always, and – I know it isn't my right to say it, but–"

Her expression glowed with her smile. "Yes, it is. Say it anyway."

"I love you," he said in a rush of earnestness. "Until the last breath leaves my body, I will love you, Mary."

"Me too," she breathed, and pressed her lips for the purest, briefest moment to his. It was enough of a goodbye, enough of a promise between them, that no other words were needed.

They parted ways, he to the library to bid the rest goodbye and she to the security of her old bedchamber, relieved for the comfort she would find there with Anna's long-missed service.

By the time they sat down to dinner, Mary had composed herself once more. Of course there were comments about Matthew's empty seat, though it seemed he'd explained himself well enough, and she tried to draw strength from the knowledge of his love. She could bear it, her life, her marriage, now that she'd known Matthew…

At least, that was what she'd told herself. But with every pointed word that passed her husband's lips (she'd been right about his belief, the smugness that reeked from his attitude was clear about that) she felt her irritation rise and rise. Now that she knew Matthew in every intimate way, now that she knew how he loved her and what they might have had… how _could_ she bear this, in its place?

As the motor bore them back to Haxby that night (thank God she'd claimed illness earlier, giving her license to escape to grieve the loss of her love all over again), she stared coldly out of the window into the darkness, unsure, horribly aware of Richard's very real presence beside her. _Her husband_.

Before, she had been able to bear it, and accept her lot as she had chosen. She had had no choice, after all. She'd borne it as she knew a wife should, and though the pretence and the coolness of it tired her every day, she had managed.

Now, all she could think of and all she desired was Matthew… and now that all lay resolved between them, healed and sealed by the desperate, impossible delight of their passion and his precious declarations of love, oh; how could she bear it anymore?

Her fingers tightened in her lap, determination steeling in her veins. Matthew was gone. Again. He was gone, and though things were different between them now (oh God, how different, how glorious), she knew that to dwell on it would serve her no favours, except to warm her soul when she felt that there was no warmth left to feel.

Matthew was gone, and she must go on, here, alone. Somehow… Somehow, she would.

**tbc...**

* * *

A/N: _Thanks ever so much for reading! I can assure you that this is only the beginning of the story... but I'd love to know what you think so far! I'll do my best to update relatively regularly, though reasonably I'd expect once a week or so - I'm sorry it can't be more, but I thought I'd make that clear now. _

_Thanks for your support - come find me on Tumblr at orangeshipper dot tumblr dot com for writing updates and musings!_

_:)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Hello again! I'm sorry I've already failed on my update-once-a-week aim... Work is incredibly tough at the moment, I'm sorry. But the holidays are here, so I hope to get a few more chapters out before I go back!_

_Thank you so much for your responses so far, they really keep me going. :)_

_And huge thanks to **Pemonynen** for her tireless help and motivation, and **EOlivet** for her invaluable support._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The unbearable days slowly became more bearable weeks, and as the new year and the new decade began things seemed to regain their normality. An appearance of normality, at least. With Matthew gone again, tensions eased, though Mary's life seemed to dull and fade without him.

It was one day early in February that Isobel met her, quite by surprise, going in to the hospital. Her plans to assist for the afternoon were put on hold as she saw Mary coming out of Doctor Clarkson's office herself, looking more drawn, pale, tired, than Isobel remembered ever seeing her before.

"Mary! My dear, is everything alright?" she asked with concern, her busy mind already formulating conclusions as to why the young woman was here, why she looked so shaken, why her hands were clasped so anxiously in front of her… She didn't know what she could do to help, she didn't know if she _could_ help, but if there were a chance then she would take it. In the weeks that had followed Matthew's departure, her pity for her son and the woman he so obviously loved had come to overtake the disappointment she'd felt in him, and now as she saw Mary she couldn't help but wonder. Was she so unhappy in her marriage as Matthew had claimed, could she still love him after everything? How had they found themselves in this mess – there must be more to their story than she knew, she was sure of that – and was there any way out of it?

Mary looked startled, but only for the briefest moment before she straightened and smiled.

"Perfectly alright! Thank you, Isobel. All the snow has put me a little under the weather I think, I thought it might be the flu, but there's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all." But her smile was uncertain.

"Oh, well I'm glad to hear it." Isobel's returning smile was equally uncertain, as she tried to read what lay hidden behind Mary's words. They stood awkwardly in the street together, and Isobel told herself it was kindness over curiosity that prompted her to invite Mary back for tea. There was an uneasy tension about the young woman, a restlessness, and after Matthew's insistence of her unhappiness Isobel wondered now if Mary wouldn't simply appreciate a change of scenery and company than her own house and husband.

Mary was surprised by the offer, and almost more surprised at herself when her lips parted quickly to accept.

"That would be lovely… Thank you."

She wondered if it was wise, as she followed Isobel through the familiar little gate and into the house. Instantly her memory was assaulted with images of Matthew, the impression of his lips hot against her skin, his hand there by the door as they'd parted, the agony she'd seen in his eyes as she'd turned her back on him and this place and what they'd shared… She took a deep breath, clutched her purse tighter and followed Isobel further into the sitting room. Somehow it was comforting to be here, to feel his presence more keenly.

It would be alright, she told herself firmly. Of course it would be alright, there was nothing wrong. Nothing at all, there was nothing…

"Would you like anything to eat?" Isobel interrupted her wandering thoughts. "I think Mrs Bird baked some lavender scones this morning, if they'd tempt you?"

"Thank you, but no. Just some tea would be perfectly lovely."

Isobel smiled, nodded and sent out Molesley to fetch it. She wasn't at all sure now how to broach things, or whether she even should. No, she was sure that she should, if only there were a delicate way to do so… Straightforwardness was one thing with her own son, but quite another with Lady Mary.

She waited until the tea had been served, and Molesley dismissed. Giving her tea a little purposeful stir, she settled back with it and looked up at Mary.

"It's very good of you to come in for a little while," she smiled pleasantly.

Mary felt herself warm a little. "It's very good of you to have asked me. Any respite from the cold weather is welcome! I'm sorry – I know we don't see very much of each other, and I do appreciate it."

"You're very welcome, Mary," Isobel said sincerely. "Though I suppose you'll be eager to get back to Haxby – I know Sir Richard travels for his work quite a lot, you must miss him. I remember how I hated it when Reginald had to travel to visit his patients, even when it was only for a day or two!"

She watched, her nerve unfailing, as Mary seemed to pale and blink down at her teacup before that smile – too bright, not natural – reclaimed her expression.

"Well, of course!" she beamed, stiffening. "Naturally I hate it, but Richard is at home at the moment, so I can't very well miss him too much!"

"I suppose not, no!" Isobel's smile didn't falter. Mary had practised this part well, she saw now, over the months of her marriage. The façade would not easily crumble, but Isobel could see a shade of vulnerability behind it that she hadn't before – she hadn't ever cared to look, before.

She took a sip of her tea, looking thoughtfully at the cup in her hands as she spoke. "I know it's a little while ago now, but Matthew was pleased to see you at Christmas. He'd missed you, I think."

Mary's features remained carefully and neutrally schooled, but there was a softness to her voice when she finally spoke.

"I was pleased to see him, too. Though we didn't have much opportunity to talk."

"Hmm, so it seemed," Isobel nodded. Looking more carefully, she saw how Mary's knuckles whitened where her fingers gripped her teacup and saucer, trying to still their trembling. Isobel sipped her own tea again. "But I suppose you were able to clear some things between you when you visited here those few days before, at least."

"Pardon me?"

She straightened, breathless, her throat tightening as she stared at Isobel in shock. How did she… Her heart beat wildly with panic, with immediately swelling anger at Matthew if he'd blurted their secret… barely allayed as Isobel sat forward, however hard her expression tried to convey reassurance and kindness.

"It's alright, my dear – and you mustn't blame Matthew. I'd come in while you were still upstairs together, and I'm afraid I–" Her cheeks tinged with shame, as did Mary's, and she settled back a little in her chair. "Well. I wasn't left in much doubt as to what went on, and Matthew's mood after you'd left only confirmed it."

Mary licked her dry lips, staring into the tea she could no longer stomach. _Isobel knew_. Their secret was no secret, oh how could they have imagined it would remain so… How stupid they had been, how thoughtless! But even so… even so, no, she would never regret it.

She looked up again, recovered, meeting squarely Isobel's gaze.

"How very disappointed you must be."

But Isobel shook her head. "No. Well I was, disappointed and very angry, with Matthew. I suppose I am disappointed that it happened at all, but that's neither here nor there, is it? The fact is that it did happen, though I can only guess at why. I know that Matthew loves you very deeply, and I think he's a fool for not having done something about it when he might have had the chance–"

"It wasn't Matthew's fault," Mary insisted, understanding at once how little Isobel truly knew. So Matthew had kept her secret, after all… and her anger with him faded, replaced once again with only the desperate sorrow of their separation. "We were both to blame, in our different ways. We always have been."

"Well… if you say so. Anyway, regardless of both your reasons, you have brought yourselves to this situation. It's difficult, I know Matthew's desperately unhappy and if you feel for him even half of what he feels for you–" (there was almost a challenge in Isobel's tone, to not injure her boy's heart any further, but there was little question of it in Mary's face) "–then you must be, too. And I only want to help, Mary, if at all I can."

To her surprise, Mary only laughed, the sound bitter and echoing sharply in the small room.

"Help?" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Isobel. But we're beyond help. Whatever my own feelings – and Matthew's – I know my own lot. It's hopeless, and there's little use in believing it might be otherwise. You're kind to offer, but… I'm afraid there's nothing you could do."

"Are you quite sure?" Isobel leaned forwards again. "Only when I saw you leave the hospital this afternoon – forgive me, I couldn't help but wonder–"

"Oh…" Mary realised at once what Isobel must have wondered, how it must have seemed. And she had not been wrong to wonder it, only… "No, you needn't worry about that." Her voice was small, and the fire within her seemed to dim a little, her expression far away. "No. I thought… that perhaps, it seemed that…" She trailed off, a slight shake to her head. "But no, there is no… consequence. Doctor Clarkson confirmed it quite finally this afternoon."

"Oh, Mary." A quiet settled between the two women as Isobel nodded in understanding.

Taking a slow breath, Mary shifted in her chair, trying to shake the odd feeling of sadness settled within her. There was no baby, couldn't be, no legacy of her and Matthew's love… Why should she be disappointed? It was a blessing, she knew – in fact the news couldn't be better. She should be relieved, happy… but somehow the finality of being left once more to bear her miserable marriage with no light, no love, no remnant, seemed a more depressing prospect than the fear of a child would have been. But it was for the best… she knew that. Even if there had been a child, she couldn't have known for sure if Matthew was... no, she daren't even think of that. No, there was no child, any child, by Matthew or her own husband, not now. Her own disappointment frustrated her, and she buried it away.

"Would you write to Matthew and tell him?" she asked tentatively then, not sure if such a request was appropriate but suddenly sure that she wanted him to know. She could hardly write herself, but seeing as Isobel knew… She gave a wan smile. "I don't know if it will even have occurred to him, but…"

"It did," Isobel said, though she wondered if he would have thought of it of his own accord. "And of course, I will, if you'd like."

"Thank you. I'd hate for him to wonder about it and worry when there's no need. I'm sorry, Isobel, you shouldn't have to–"

"I said I wanted to help," she reminded the younger woman with fond sternness. "Please, my dear, if there's anything I can do – even if it's only to provide some company and a change of scenery, if it would help – please, just ask."

Mary smiled, appreciative. "You're being far kinder than I'm sure I deserve in the circumstances, but I must admit that would be very welcome."

"Come now, don't be silly. I may not understand all your troubles, and I may well not approve of how… things have been dealt with. But whatever else, I know that Matthew cares deeply for you and your happiness, so if there is any way I can lighten your burden then I will do so gladly."

Overwhelmed by Isobel's thoughtfulness, Mary hardly knew what to say, and appreciated it gladly when the older woman shifted from such delicately personal themes of conversation to more mindless, distracting chatter about the house and village. The shifted perspective from what she normally heard when talking to her closer family was refreshing, and Mary found herself feeling the same ease in Isobel's presence that had drawn her so long ago to Matthew. She recognised afresh in Isobel his character, his kindness, his thoughtfulness… and as painful as every reminder of him was, she couldn't deny the appeal of the comfort she took from it.

When the clock at last chimed five o'clock, Mary was shocked to see how the time had flown and to realise how much she had enjoyed Isobel's company.

"Goodness, I must go," she sighed. "I'm afraid Sir Richard will wonder where on earth I've been."

"And you may tell him exactly where, with a clear mind!" Isobel said brightly, wondering again though not daring to ask why exactly Mary had married a man she so obviously, now, couldn't bear. "I'll be writing to Matthew soon and will tell him what you asked."

"Thank you. And thank you for your… understanding, Isobel."

She smiled. "Understanding? I don't know that I understand at all, my dear. But I'm pleased to do what I can to cheer you a little, if I'm able. Do come by again, if ever you'd like to."

"I would like to," Mary nodded, slowly, thinking. "I think I'd like to very much."

* * *

"You came back today much later than I expected you," Richard commented dryly during dinner, later that evening. He did not look up from the newspaper beside him.

Mary didn't lift her head but stared, at the white plate, cool silver and crystal glass on the crisp white cloth in the grand, cold room. All of it pale, cold, unfeeling. Just like her, at least when she was in this house. _Her _house. _Their_ house.

She took a slow breath.

"Did I? Perhaps you shouldn't have expected me so soon, then. You knew I was going in to the village, to see Doctor Clarkson."

"Mary, don't be flippant about it–"

"Why shouldn't I be, when you say such silly things," she shrugged. Though his concern was genuine enough, it couldn't save her irritation, not this evening. "You needn't worry, it isn't the flu and he's given me a clean bill of health so long as I keep from the cold and rest, that's all." _That was all_, she reminded herself silently.

"I'm glad to hear it." He glanced up at his wife and smiled, but the air between them was too chill for that. "But I'm surprised you stayed out so long, then. You can't have been in the hospital all that time – it's hardly bursting at the seams with patients."

Mary rolled her eyes, her teeth set on edge by his derisive drawl.

"As it happened, I ran into Cousin Isobel on my way out and she asked me back to Crawley House for tea. I had a lovely afternoon with her, in fact I'll probably go again next week."

At that, Richard did look fully up.

"Isobel? That does surprise me. You've never been especially close."

"Perhaps we haven't, but I think that's a shame. As much as I take after Granny and share her views, talking with Isobel was a quite refreshing contrast."

"I see," Richard said quietly. "So you intend to visit Crawley House rather more often, then?"

Quiet fell for a moment as Mary raised her head to stare at her husband. She realised at once, and it sickened her, the sharp edge masked behind his words.

"Don't tell me you're jealous," she scoffed. "Or worse, suspicious – of what? Dear me, am I to be forbidden from simply being in Matthew's old _house_, or from speaking to anyone close to him? I'm afraid that would be rather difficult as we share the same family!" Indignation blazed in her dark eyes, as her husband glared stonily back. "Unless, of course," she laughed, "you suspect that Matthew is hiding there himself in wait for me to visit on pretence of seeing his mother… Do you see how ridiculous that is?"

"I think you're the one being ridiculous, my dear." His voice was low, almost dangerous, but Mary's gaze did not falter. After several painfully long, silent moments, he sat back in his chair and shrugged, dismissing her. "If you want to spend time with Isobel, it's of no matter to me. I'm only concerned for you, nothing more."

"I'm not sure how my visiting Isobel could be a concern," she replied in anger before she recognised his challenge. Her fingers tightened around her fork, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

Richard looked at her coolly. "I know you miss him," he shook his head, as if in pity for her. Mary felt sick. "Of course, talking with Isobel may be a comfort there. You may pretend all you want, Mary, but we both know it's true. And you may think me jealous of your affection – and wouldn't I have a right to be? – but yes, it is a concern. Because one day you may find out for sure that he doesn't return your high regard. You may understand just why he was so anxious to leave on Christmas day, why he seemed so uncomfortable then. I'm afraid it will be rather distressing when you do."

She stared back at him, feeling nothing but the tightness in her chest of despair and frustration.

"And I suppose you understand his reasons so perfectly," she said, her tone like ice.

"I have my suspicions," was all he would reply, before resuming his meal with a calmness that infuriated Mary. His self-assurance sickened her, his belief in Matthew's disgust, but she could not reveal that she knew what he'd done… however much she longed to throw it back in his face.

They ate in silence, Mary only picking at her food as she had done for weeks, wondering for how much longer this could go on. How much longer she could go on… but she had no choice.

When Barrow cleared their plates for the next course, Mary pushed hers away apologetically. It wasn't their cook's fault, after all.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have lost my appetite, rather."

"It's quite alright, Lady Mary," he replied pleasantly. His usual irreverent charm settled the atmosphere in the cold room just a little, and Mary found herself grateful for it. "Would you care for dessert still, or shall I have it put aside for later?"

Mary's lips parted to reply, but her husband cut in before she had a chance.

"Perhaps, if Lady Mary's appetite is gone, it should be kept."

It took every ounce of her restraint to nod, smile, thank the butler calmly as her soul seemed to tremble with frustration. The moment they were alone, Richard glanced up again, his words laden with care that only turned Mary's stomach. "I'm afraid you've taken on too much today, my dear, if Doctor Clarkson suggested that you rest. Maybe you should take his advice and go to bed, if you're feeling unwell."

"I think I will." Barely able to stand being in the same room as her husband a moment longer, she rose to her feet with more steadiness than she felt and bid him goodnight without ceremony. As she went up to bed, she only hoped that it had been final enough to dissuade him from coming to her that night. Her skin crawled at the very thought, she couldn't face it, not after today… She paused, her grip tight on the marble balustrade, her eyes closing as she took a steadying breath and thought of Matthew. For a precious moment she dwelt on the memory of him, his assurance of love, his parting kiss, his scent and his taste and his body with hers… Strengthened, and calmed, she smiled the slightest smile as she carried on upstairs. She could bear her life, as long as she could remember Matthew. It was enough… at least for now.

* * *

Of course it was not enough.

It could never have been enough, and Mary realised it more with every week that passed. She realised how stupid they had been, how terribly stupid.

She had been able to pretend, before. He had turned his back on her, on them, and gone to Manchester… and she had made the best of her life without him. She hadn't enjoyed it, but she'd accepted it, and his loss. Because there had been nothing between them… There couldn't be, he'd said so by Lavinia's grave, he'd thrown their chances to the stars.

It had all been bearable, then, because she'd hardened herself to it.

But now… now, she _missed_ him! Now she knew undoubtedly his love, now she knew the sweetness of his passion, now she knew the life they might have had if only they'd both been braver. And knowing all of that, to be separated from him was unbearable.

As winter turned to spring, and snowdrops began to grace the grass verges of every path, Mary came to cherish her visits with Isobel. They talked of Matthew, and the opportunity to simply express what she truly felt was a comfort to her. To relax the painful façade, even for only an hour or so. Richard's suspicions had soon been calmed (he'd even joined them once, though conversation was careful and had revealed nothing to fuel his assumptions), and their life had settled back to a dull routine of appearance and propriety.

But simply to remember Matthew was never enough to bear it.

The sharpness of memory faded, and Mary missed him desperately. She missed talking to him, about the most mundane and the most important of things, she missed his presence simply being in her life. Every mention of him from her family, even from Isobel, only made his absence from _her_ more keenly felt. Before that afternoon, she'd been able to bear it, and could do so as long as she believed he didn't care. But now, that was impossible.

_Impossible_.

Everything about it, about them, was impossible but maybe…

Her heart pounded as she knocked on Isobel's door, her mind made up. Barely waiting until she was inside the door, the request burst out before she allowed herself to reconsider the sense of it (she was sure Isobel would try, anyway).

"Would you help me write to Matthew?" she asked, her eyes shining with eagerness and trepidation. "I'm sure Richard would find it out somehow if I wrote to Manchester myself, but if you could help… I just want to talk to him, Isobel. Please."

**tbc...**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading. For those who asked about the endgame of this fic... never fear. Is all I will say._

_To you all, thank you for your support - I'd love to know what you think so far!_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Terribly sorry for the delay with this chapter... I'd hoped to write more over the holidays but I ended up in hospital the day after posting Chapter 2 and it's taking me a while to get back into the swing of things. But here we are! :) Thank so much for your interest and encouragement so far. _

_Thanks as ever to Pemonynen and EOlivet for their boundless support!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the morning, as Matthew sat at his usual table by the bay window eating his breakfast, his thoughts dwelling fixedly on the routine matters of the day. He'd only a few clients to see, and he must remember to take one of his suits to the tailor to mend a split seam, and collect a document file from the city court… They were mundane tasks, boring really, but to dwell on the mundane routines of his daily life was so often preferable to dwelling on other things, things (people, one person, a Lady) that only caused him pain to miss. In his boredom and loneliness he suffered without complaint, keeping himself busy with the city and his work, knowing that everything was _better this way_.

"Two letters for you this morning, Mr Crawley!" Mrs Beetson dropped the envelopes beside his breakfast plate.

"Hmm? Oh, thank you."

"And I hope your breakfast is to your liking?" she lingered, watching Matthew's reaction to his letters curiously. In all the months that he'd lived here, renting a suite of rooms on the first floor of her well-kept town house, she hadn't quite yet managed to get the measure of him. Though he gave the impression of a pleasant and charming young man, he kept to himself and so often seemed melancholy. She got the sense that his darkness was out of character, and had been pleased on his return at Christmas to see shades of happiness in his more frequent smiles, at odd moments as though lost in a private memory. But whenever she'd ask about the trip to his home, the light in his eyes would quickly fade and he would pass it all off with little comment. He intrigued her, though she knew it was little of her business – but he seemed so deeply troubled, and she liked to help him in what little ways she could.

Matthew touched his napkin to his lips, sat back with satisfaction and smiled.

"You know perfectly well it's delicious… It always is."

"And you're always too kind about it, young man!" she replied fondly, touching his shoulder as she bustled away to pass on the other letters arrived that morning for the others who rented her rooms.

Scanning the two envelopes, Matthew recognised one to be from his mother, the other from a London solicitor he didn't know. He opened the first, noticing it was thicker than usual and raising his eyebrows when as well as the note from his mother, he pulled out a second neatly folded envelope.

All else was forgotten as he recognised the elegant script at once, his heart pounding as he raced back to the seclusion of his rooms to read it. His hands shook as he slid his thumb under the seal, dimly aware of the faint feminine scent that clung to the paper, of Mary, he was sure he didn't imagine it…

_7__th__ March 1920_

_My dear Matthew,_

_You must think it mad of me to write to you. I think it is mad, completely mad. But I'm afraid I had to do something – I feel so weak to admit it, ashamed that I need to – I miss you too much, darling. Nothing's changed, it's all as impossible as ever. Though we may not see each other, there's no harm in writing, surely? I can't betray my husband by simply writing to my cousin and friend, or so I reason to myself. _

_Still, I know it would displease him so I've prevailed on the kindness of your mother to enclose my note in safety. If you do write back to me (you may think it unwise and I'd understand, but Matthew I wish that you will), please send it only to her, and she will see that it comes to me. Your mother has been such a comfort to me, Matthew, and I'm only sorry now I haven't known her well before. We are making up for it now, she and I, and Sir Richard can't mind that. _

_Tell me how you are, darling – I hear of your news from her but I'm selfish and long to hear it myself from you. Whatever you like, it doesn't matter how boring, it will cheer the bleakness of my world here. _

_Keep well, and know that I think of you very often. _

_With affection,  
Mary_

He read the letter again, barely able to believe the fact of it in his hands, and then twice more. Scanning the note from his mother he saw Mary's words attested, and though he knew she most likely would not approve of their secrecy, he adored her for allowing it. For allowing them to correspond and to know each other, if this was the only way they could.

It was dangerous, his rational mind argued. Mary was another man's wife and he deserved no part of her love. There could be no affair, the very idea of it appalled him (to have fallen once with her was wrong enough, however cherished the memory)… but maybe Mary was right. There was no betrayal in a letter, an affair could not be conducted through words alone. Could it? He felt almost sick with excitement and fear. No, if he was careful about what he said as she asked, there was no harm. In any case, they had already betrayed her marriage once and made love, their hearts were already compromised, and mere letters could make little difference to that now.

If they were careful… perhaps this was alright. Deep in his heart Matthew knew how he was fooling himself, but as he held her letter in his trembling fingers and pressed it sweetly to his lips, savouring even the slightest impression of Mary, he was unable to resist. He only loved her more for her bravery in writing at all. She had always been the strong one, stronger than him, and of course he could not deny her.

He read her precious words one last time, then realised how late he was for work and had to race to catch up with himself, leaving the other letter from London to be dealt with another time. There was more to think of before that.

* * *

_9__th__ March 1920_

_Dear Mary,_

_Oh, my dearest Mary. I've never written back so quickly to Mother, and I'm afraid if you write again I'll have to restrain the urge to respond the very same day. Otherwise the frequency would make for very boring content, and – well, you know how improper it would be. And I'm sure we must take some account for such things. _

_You can't know what joy it gave me to hear from you directly, to hear your own words. If that is all we can have, Mary, I will gladly take it. There is just one point in your persuasion that I cannot agree with, and it's that we may write merely to our cousin and friend. No matter how I may try, you will always be far more to me than that, and there's no use in pretending otherwise. Not now. I know it won't be helpful to either of us to speak of these things, and it hardly needs to be said again. My feelings for you are clear within my heart, and I think at least that you feel the same about me, unless your affection has dimmed since Christmas. If it has, that's probably all for the best. But let me say it just this once, again, and you may count it as true for always. I love you, my darling, with everything that I am. I love you so terribly much. _

_Besides the constancy of such feelings, I am quite well. My life here is busy, and I'm grateful for it. There is always something going on in the city – something I think my mother misses dearly – and my work is a constant distraction. It isn't always very interesting, but it occupies my time at least. Even things that seem to most trivial to me must be of such importance to the people they affect, which I suppose is true of much in life. _

_I can't write more now, but I will again soon, if you like. I'm so terribly glad that you wrote. I'm ashamed of my own cowardice, now and for so many times in the past. But you are the most marvellous person, Mary – you strengthen me, you always have, you always will. Even as everything stands now, you carry on with such grace, and I don't know how you do it. I promise I won't always write such drivel, and I'm sorry for it now. But I wanted you to know all of it. In the future, you may count on frighteningly dull recounts of books and meetings and how poorly I have slept. _

_I hope you are keeping well, and that there is much in your life to cause you happiness. You are always in my thoughts, darling, always – however much I may try to avoid it. Please, do take that as a compliment._

_Your loving cousin and friend,  
Matthew_

* * *

It wasn't until a week later that Mary received his reply, when she made her customary visit to Isobel.

"He must have written back the very next day, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Isobel apologised as she passed the envelope over. Mary's excitement was palpable, and she couldn't help but smile as eager fingers held the note in a waiting lap. "I thought it best to wait until you would visit of your own accord, so I hope you won't mind."

"Not at all, you were right to!" Mary smiled, tapping her heels restlessly. She longed to tear open the letter at once, to read what he had to say to hear and pore over each word… It had been agony to wait for his reply, fearing that he would think her stupid for such a risk or would think this too insensible, too dangerous, too impossible to carry on. But he had written back, and she itched with anticipation, her cheeks aching to maintain the appearance of cool, patient politeness. "I can't thank you enough for helping with this, Isobel."

"Well, it isn't much to ask if I'm only passing letters on as and when I'd write anyway," she assured Mary. "I doubt it's the most sensible thing to do, but I think it's the most sensible thing you _can_ do, so I don't mind that. You must be eager to read it, so I'll go and see how the tea's getting on, dear."

In the brief note that Matthew had included for her along with his letter to Mary, his excitement had rung in every word, and now Isobel saw it reflected in Mary. When it gave them such pleasure, she couldn't find it within herself to deny them it. If they'd asked her complicity in anything more, in helping them to arrange to meet or anything of the sort, she would certainly refuse on principle. But there couldn't be so much harm in letters alone, and Mary had reasoned with her that as far as possible their correspondence would remain beyond reproach, the innocent chatter of their daily lives that they could take comfort in from simply knowing it was written by the other. Isobel doubted they would keep to such assurances, but hoped they were sensible enough to at least try.

His letter made Mary laugh, and she read it again at once, her eyes shining with affection. By the time Isobel came back with some tea and muffins, she had folded the letter closed, the words already etched and treasured in her mind. They had to be, because she couldn't possibly keep it in safety to re-read at her leisure, and asked Isobel instead to keep it safely there.

She wrote back to him the next week in time for Isobel's post to him, and insisted that he was welcome to write of the dullest things he could think of, that he didn't need to (and mustn't) say anything more prosaic than that, for she had no doubt of his love (and hoped that he had none of hers). And so he did; he wrote to her of meetings and books and ice-cream as he bicycled through the park, and though there was nothing special in what he said it always warmed her heart. It was what she'd missed so dearly, what she'd always loved, that way they could so easily talk of anything and feel instinctively understood and respected. In return she told him all the little things that went on in her life, her trials in marshalling their household staff, the charity tea she was organising for one of Isobel's causes, how she worried over Edith's determination to carry on with Sir Anthony.

Their letters were short, inconsequential, and yet to them they meant the world. Everything became a little easier to bear. Though they were still bound to be apart, the comfort of hearing each other's news seemed to lessen the ache of their separation, the impossibility of their love.

* * *

On those days when Matthew received letters as well as his mother's (with Mary's safely enclosed), he came to make a point of reading everything else, first. He'd learnt it was wiser to that first day, when the shock of her letter had caused him to forget the other that had turned out to be really quite important. Besides that, he liked to save hers till last to savour the anticipation of it, and so that her words were the last thing in his mind as he travelled to work to bear him through the day.

Today was no different, and he began with the letter that bore handwriting so very familiar, that he couldn't quite place… He found in the very first words that the sender was Robert, and he swallowed uncomfortably. The earl wrote to him so rarely, and his first thought was panic – that he'd been _found out_ somehow, that Mary was in trouble, that something was wrong – he wondered if he should read the other letter first, but now he had begun his fear pressed him on, and he carried on reading slowly and carefully.

By the closing signature, Matthew was deeply troubled, and he rubbed his fingers across his aching forehead. The news seemed impossible… It wasn't of course, but it was rotten for the family, and where did it leave him? God, it left him… in an absolute mess. And Mary, was she even aware of it all? Uncomfortable heat prickled through his body, his collar hot and irritating as his suddenly clammy hands scrabbled to open the other letter, to see if she'd written as well, to see if she knew. His mother seemed to have some idea of it, he quickly surmised, and Mary… Her very tone was different, darker, sadder, as she told him in her own way the news her father had broken to him, too.

He didn't know what he could possibly tell them in response.

The housekeeper broke into his spiralling thoughts.

"Is everything alright, Mr Crawley? You've hardly touched your eggs this morning." She didn't like to pry, but she'd grown pleasantly used to seeing him brighten up when he received letters with that particular hand and postmark over recent weeks. The dark frown lining his brow was uncommon, now, and concerned her.

He shifted in his chair, shuffling the letters between his hands, not looking up.

"Yes, I… have just received some rather worrying news from my cousins." He inhaled sharply and turned to her, smiling weakly. "You're kind to ask but I don't want to burden you with it, it's nothing… so very dreadful. I suppose. No-one's died, anyway, nothing like that. I'm sorry."

Mrs Beetson picked up his plate, shaking her head fondly at the young man who puzzled her so.

"Don't be silly and apologise for nothing. Any sort of bad news is a worry. Does this mean you'll be visiting them again soon?"

"No, I don't think there's any need for that," he said quickly, quietly, tapping his fingers together. "No… I don't think… it would help, at all."

She frowned after him as he hurried from the dining room, the letters clutched tightly in one hand.

* * *

After four sleepless nights and four endless, exhausting days, Matthew still had no idea of how he could respond. But he knew that he must, however inadequate his response might be, for now.

_2__nd__ May 1920_

_My dear Mary,_

_I was glad as always to hear from you this week, but am deeply sorry for the news. My dear, I don't know what to say._

_By chance your father had written to me with the same post, to tell me himself. I admire him for doing so, it was good of him to think of me and must have been difficult for him to write, though I don't know how to reply to him either. Is it really so very bad as he makes out, do you think? Is so much of the money gone? It's just so hard to believe, and for the situation to be so dire so suddenly. _

_Mary, I wonder… what can be done about it all. Your father seems to think that there is little option than to sell Downton, but such a move seems terribly drastic. I'm sorry, I know you have told me everything you know of it already and I'm asking useless questions that you must all have been over before. I'm sorry to say that Richard's attitude doesn't surprise me, and I can't bear to think how it must pain you. Do you really think he could raise the funds to hold it over your father? Still, I gather there is some time yet before any drastic measures need to be taken, and I will pray that a more satisfactory solution presents itself in due course. _

_I desperately hope something can be done, and I'm so terribly sorry about the whole thing. _

_I'll write again soon, my dear, and please look after yourself in the meantime. My thoughts are with you always, at every moment. _

_With love,  
Matthew_

Letting the pen drop from his ink-stained fingers, Matthew slumped back in the chair at his desk with a heavy sigh. It was inadequate, deeply so, but it would have to do. That was all the comfort he could give for now, and would repeat to Robert; that it seemed there was still time, and he hoped a solution would present itself in due course. A solution that would mean the family didn't have to lose Downton. A solution that would save him from deciding whether or not to use the staggering amount of money he'd recently discovered he was due to inherit from Reginald Swire.

He didn't deserve the money, he wanted shot of it, he couldn't bear to use it for any gain… but how could he watch Downton Abbey slip away from those dearest to him, never mind his own future, knowing that he may have the means to save it?

Rubbing his hands wearily over his face, he stretched and picked up his pen again to write to Robert.

There was still time for him to think about what to do. God, he hoped there was still time.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! And we're back to the old Swire inheritance problem... because I reasoned that in this AU, Robert's bad investment still stands, as does Reggie Swire's understanding of M/L's relationship, and so I feel it must still feature. I can assure you now that it's simply introduced here and will not dominate the story, and due to M/M's changed positions in this AU their eventual attitudes to it may be very different... but all that will come in time. I'd love to know what you think of how things are going so far, and next chapter will start to set in motion a possible reunion... Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _Thanks so much for your responses to Chapter Three, and here we are again! I hope the money plot hasn't proved off-putting to people, though I know it was contentious in the show. Please let me assure you again that it will play out very differently here, as a kind of backbone to the story though it won't dominate. And once again, that this is an M/M story and they will get their happy ending!_

_That being said, at the moment Mary is still stuck with the rather significant problem of being married to Carlisle. Please be warned now that some unpleasant and potentially distressing themes between them occur in this chapter - trigger warnings apply, so please read with caution. I did feel, though, that this aspect of their relationship deserved due consideration, however unpleasant._

_Thanks as ever to Pemonynen and EOlivet for their polish and encouragement!_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Dining at the Abbey was always more preferable, Mary felt, than dining alone at Haxby with her husband. Richard wasn't often keen to go, he argued that they had a perfectly large and pleasant house of their own and it seemed a waste to be always dining elsewhere. But with the earl's recent revelation of the loss of Downton's fortune, he'd seemed distinctly less resistant to visiting. It made Mary's stomach churn, his quiet pleasure at the prospect of losing the family home. Of course he was perfectly polite and sympathetic in everything he said, but she knew that little turn of his lip, the glint in his eye as he looked down with eyebrows raised, that revealed his true attitude.

"Why do you take such glee in it?" she'd challenged him archly as they got into the car one evening. If he were to be so insufferable again, she wasn't sure she could stand it. "Does the thought of my father's humiliation and my family losing their home really amuse you so much?"

He took her hand, supporting her elbow as he helped her into the car.

"I don't take any glee in it, my dear, it's a dreadful shame."

"You may fool them," Mary clasped her bag tightly in her lap, "but you've a harder job with me by now."

Settling beside her, he placed his hand over hers. She felt his eyes on her and faced him resolutely, waiting for his explanation, knowing it would disappoint her.

Richard chuckled. "There is no 'fooling' going on, and you must stop taking things so personally. I'm trying to find a bright side to the whole mess, that's all, as I believe your father is too."

"What bright side can there possibly be?" Mary hissed, feeling her fingers tense under his.

"Well," he drew a breath before answering, considering things. "A smaller property would be more efficient to run, especially if Edith is soon to fly the nest as well. Besides that, if Downton must be sold, then someone by proxy must buy it…"

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He squeezed her hand. "It would take time to secure enough assets in hand, and I'd have to call on a great many favours. And sell Haxby, of course, but as it's fitted now we can fetch a fine price for that. But wouldn't it please you, darling?" There was that eager, mercenary look in his eyes, and Mary realised with a sick twist in her gut how serious he was. That he really thought he might buy her affection. He carried on, excitement ringing with conviction in his voice as it had when he'd proposed to her. "Since the natural inheritance of Downton has been denied to you, wouldn't this right every wrong? You would have the house you were born to have, and it would stay within the family. Surely that's better than for a house filled with such history to pass into a stranger's hands? Mary, you and I can save it together."

With his entreaty hanging in the air between them, Mary inclined her head.

"You put forth quite a convincing argument," she said neutrally, eyebrows raised.

"Well, then. If it would make you happy, Mary, I will do whatever I need to achieve it for you."

She sighed, eyes closing a moment, feeling no warmth from his hand.

"But not every memory that Downton holds is a happy one for us. You must see that, Richard."

"Then," he leaned toward her earnestly, and she held her breath, "we shall have the chance to make new, and better, memories for it. It makes sense, and you know it."

"I suppose so." Her smile was tight, her words careful and quiet. She couldn't put her finger on why she riled against the idea so fiercely, beyond her utter distaste for his satisfaction. In many ways his argument was right; hadn't she believed for so long that Downton was her due? If Downton must be sold then to keep it in the family would be a blessing, and more than that she would feel a closeness to Matthew, there… the memory of his presence lingering always where they'd walked together, talked, laughed, touched, even kissed… She shivered. Perhaps in such terms Richard's scheme wasn't so bad, but still she couldn't shake the resistance she felt to it. She couldn't bear for Richard to gain at her father's loss, she couldn't bear his smug satisfaction of having _won_, and how he would never let it be forgotten. Would it be worth it?

She licked her lips, tried to soften her smile, and finally turned her hand under his to squeeze his fingers gently. A sign of conciliation, hoping it would play to her favour. "Still, please don't say any of this to Papa. It may be the best thing, but we still don't know that they'll have to leave it yet. There's plenty of time for a solution to be found without the upheaval of selling our own home, so please don't upset Papa further by even mentioning the suggestion. Will you do that for me, at least?"

Richard watched her, his eyes flitting between her eyes and her lips as she spoke. Satisfied that she seemed to be considering the idea, at least, he settled back in his seat, raising her hand fleetingly to his lips before turning to see the Abbey looming at the end of the long drive.

"If you wish, my dear, of course."

* * *

He kept to his word, and the topic of Downton's misfortunes seemed largely forgotten through dinner. Robert mentioned that he'd written to Matthew of their current difficulties, and Mary kept her eyes downwards as the conversation briefly centred on him. She'd received his letter through Isobel the day before, and prayed as he did that another solution may be found soon, though she didn't know how it might be. Even so, his words alone had been a comfort, and she smiled to herself as Isobel pleasantly answered her parents' questions about his work and health.

"Of course being in a city – even such as Manchester – does have its advantages," Violet commented dryly. "But one must be able to get away from it. To live so steadfastly in the middle of it all seems dreadfully tiring."

Edith shook her head. "To you, perhaps, Granny," she said with a smile. "Some people might find it exciting."

"I'm sure they might, dear, but thankfully we are not all such thrill-seekers. It's far nicer to live in peace in the country, still close enough to travel in when one does feel the need for a little excitement now and again."

"You hardly need to convince us, Mama," Robert laughed, and Richard readily agreed with him, to Mary's irritation again. As much as she loved the country, she felt stifled in Haxby and sometimes wished far rather that they might have lived in London. At least there'd be more diversion, there, from her pitiable marriage. She breathed a silent sigh, and turned to listen again to her grandmother, who seemed quite set on the matter.

"Like the Greys, they have the distance just right. Speaking of whom, I've arranged to visit with them the weekend after next, and I thought Mary might accompany me."

"What?" Mary was startled, but instantly excited at the prospect of release.

"They're your godparents, after all," Violet said simply. "And I do so hate to travel alone."

Cora smiled. "A change of scenery is always nice, Mary, it seems a lovely idea."

"I suppose I haven't seen the Greys since the wedding last year. Thank you, Granny."

But not everyone found the scheme so palatable, and Richard lost no time in making his displeasure known.

"You know that I'm working in London that weekend, my dear. Perhaps the house shouldn't be left–"

"All the more reason for Mary to come," Violet said quickly, fixing Sir Richard with an eye that brooked no argument. "It would be a shame to spirit her away from you on a weekend when you might otherwise be together. You won't deny her a little holiday, will you?"

It was as if she dared him to challenge her, and of course he could not. He glanced from Violet to his wife, whose eyes were like ice. He took a deep breath, and smiled with a shake of his head.

"Of course not, you're right. So, you must remind me where the family lives – are they far from here?"

Mary sighed. "Knutsford, darling. It's in Cheshire. You needn't worry, it isn't the other end of the country." Her skin seemed to crawl at his questioning and his hold over her, and she took a sip of wine to settle herself. It had been too long since she'd travelled from here, and she hated him daring to try and prevent her.

"Ah. You see I'm still not so familiar with the northern counties here. I gather they live a suitable distance from the city, then; which centre of culture are they fortunate enough to reside near?"

Violet shrugged and took a small bite of her dessert, as Mary remembered for herself and became very still, hardly able to breathe.

"Oh, I'd hardly call it a centre of culture, but as we've found it has its diversions," the Dowager Countess said calmly. "They're not so far from Manchester. Who knows, we may even see Matthew while we're there!"

* * *

Mary stared blankly into her mirror later that night, her mind in a whirl. Was her grandmother mad? Did she suspect them, had she chosen the Greys to visit so purposefully? As they'd waited for the men to come through after dinner, the Dowager Countess had merely shrugged and touched Mary's knee in conspiracy. It was plain to anyone, she'd said, that Mary and Richard were hardly the picture of newlywed bliss, and that a change of air and a weekend's distance would brighten her no end. And that was all she would say.

The prospect of simply getting away was heavenly, but to be so close to Manchester, to Matthew… For her to see him, for anything to happen, was impossible of course. And yet, it was _not_, because Violet's invitation and presence gave her perfect legitimacy to, free from any argument her husband might raise. _Could_ she, perhaps?

She shook her head, rubbing cream into her hands and concentrating on the motion. Absolutely not. However much she might want to… Her head began to spin with the memory of him, and she shivered. _Absolutely not._

"Anything else, Milady?" Harris asked, tying off Mary's braid and stepping back.

"Not tonight. Thank you."

"Goodnight, then," the maid bobbed respectfully and hurried out. Mary barely registered the fact, sighing as she stared at her reflection. Tomorrow, she would write to Matthew, when she'd thought a little more.

She stiffened as the door behind her opened again. For that split-second's uncertainty she prayed it might simply be Harris, having forgotten something, but… no. Of course he would come tonight, his pride would not allow otherwise when she was to be spirited away from him, closer to Matthew, even for only three days. Her hands clenched in her lap and she swallowed, unmoving as he covered the room towards her, resisting her involuntary shudder as his hand closed over her shoulder.

"So you'll be going, then," he said quietly.

Mary shifted a little, not enough to face him.

"Yes, I think so. You know how difficult it is to refuse Granny when she's determined."

She felt his hand tighten on her shoulder, and she held her breath. She braced for his anger, his insistence that she must not go near Matthew or his ridicule of her affection. But it didn't come.

Instead he knelt beside her, turning her on the stool to face him and she did not resist.

"You've seemed happier, this last month or so," he observed.

Surprised, Mary nodded. "I suppose I have been. Things are always pleasanter when we get into Spring after the Winter." But her heart beat quicker at what had caused her depression to lift, her treasured letters each week from Matthew that made everything a little easier to bear. She had no fear of them being discovered, kept safely away in Isobel's care.

"That pleases me." His hand lowered from her shoulder to her knee, and she held still, quietly seething with indignation that he could make her own happiness somehow about him. She said nothing, but took a shallow breath, as he carried on. "I mean it," he said, entreating her with his eyes as if he thought it might make a difference, waiting until she looked up and met his gaze. "Of all the things I have and have gained in my life, Mary, you are by far the most precious."

Her eyes closed, and she swallowed down the bile in her throat with all the calmness she could muster.

"You make it sound as though I am simply one of your many possessions," she said, her voice low and measured. "I'm not sure such a sentiment is quite so romantic as you imagine it to be."

"To every intent and purpose, Mary, you are mine." His face was suddenly very close to hers, and she blinked steadfastly, breathing slowly, steeling herself against him. "You'd do well to not forget that."

Then before she could reply his mouth was against hers, leaving no space and no air, but she remained still as her lips barely moved in response.

"Richard, please…" she sighed, turning her head away as if about to yawn. In a familiar move she brought her hands to rest against his shoulders, a gesture that might almost be thought affectionate instead of the bored disdain they both knew it to be. But he remained jarringly close, his pale blue eyes unmoving from her face.

"You are my wife, you can hardly refuse me again," he said, very quietly now as he tried to bite back the pleading frustration he felt, and Mary almost felt sorry for him. Almost, not quite. "Remember, you chose this."

"I hardly–"

"When you told me, you chose this. I have _tried_ – I will carry on trying – to do what I can to please you, but you must play your part too."

There was a pause, a silent battle of wills between their eyes. Waiting just long enough, Mary nodded, making the first move to kiss him chastely herself to deny him any perception of power. He had begged (as much as he would ever), and she had granted it, and the battle was won. Inwardly her bitterness rose, but she knew that ultimately it was preferable to accept this thankfully brief unpleasantness than to put him off yet again, as she had the last few times he'd come to her. She'd long accepted this as simply another of her duties as a wife, one that society expected her to fulfill without complaint. Still, better this way, to take the decision for herself instead of at his mercy. No, she would never be that. Her limbs moved mechanically with his, dispassionately, refusing him any liberty beyond what she permitted and just enough to sate him as her mind wandered to distraction. Anything was preferable – the tick of the clock, the wind outside, the items she needed to order tomorrow, the promise of Manchester, _Matthew_ – no, she owed her husband no thought, even now.

Somehow, as always, she held on until it was over, her mind clear as if disengaged from her body. And when she bid it, he left her, a cursory whispered '_goodnight_,' and she instantly rose to wash herself from the basin at her dresser. She shuddered as she scrubbed the dampened cloth across her skin, her lip curling distastefully as she methodically banished any remnant.

Too agitated to sleep immediately, she walked to the window and took a deep, calming breath. Time had passed and such distinct memories of Matthew, his taste and his scent and the texture of his skin beneath her palm, were beginning to fade with it. Where they had offered comfort before, she sought them now but found them confused, jumbled and mixed in her mind with more recent memories that threatened to push them out. She squeezed her eyes closed and took another breath.

In the morning, with a clearer mind, she would write to him.

The thought alone was comfort enough for now.

* * *

_6__th__ May 1920_

_Dear Matthew,_

_Thank you for your letter, and for writing to Papa as well. He said you had at dinner last night, and I could tell it had brightened him to hear from you. As it does me, each and every time. Now, you were so concerned with our desperate circumstance that you didn't say a word of how you are! So please tell me that you're well, and I'm aching to know whether your neighbour has forgiven you yet for somehow smearing bicycle oil on her coat. Really, Matthew, I'm not sure that I'd have been able to! And you know, of course, that I tease. _

_But I'm afraid that things seem just as serious as you suspect. And what's worse, Richard seems quite determined to swoop in and do whatever he can to pay my father out for it. He says of course that it's for me, that I should always have had Downton as my home and he only wants to make me happy, but he never seems quite convincing. You know how he is. But I mustn't talk of such things here. As you said, let's pray that a better solution is quickly found._

_I do have some happier news! Granny has decided to visit some old family friends, my godparents in fact, so is going away for a few days the weekend after next. And she's decided that I must go with her – Richard wasn't best pleased of course but I'm thrilled at the chance of a break. The Greys aren't the most thrilling people in the world but I don't suppose I'll have to spend all my time with them, and there are other friends nearby who I'd dearly like to see, perhaps. If it's possible at all, I'm not quite sure yet. _

_Write to me soon and tell me all your news, and be sure to look after yourself._

_Fondly yours,  
Mary_

Putting down her pen, Mary looked over what she'd written with a small frown. Unconsciously her fingers stroked the pen, her mind batting back and forth as she wrestled with how wise it would be, how foolish, how stupid, how wonderful…

Perhaps… nothing need come of it after all but she could hardly keep it a secret, not when they'd be so close…

Before she could convince herself otherwise, she wrote quickly a small, neat postscript.

_P.S. The Greys live in Cheshire, not at all far from Manchester._

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading - I hope it wasn't too uncomfortable to read (it certainly wasn't all pleasant to write!). I know it's a very sensitive issue to deal with, but please understand I've tried to consider attitudes of the time and certainly not my own about how acceptable Mary's situation is. Hopefully the message was clear that Mary is always, as far as possible, in control of herself and holding her own against Richard. In any case I'd love to know what you think about what's happening, or what might happen, so please feel free to share your thoughts! Next chapter will be a lot more pleasant, I promise. Thank you! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Well, here we are again (sooner than I imagined!), and I have to thank you so much for your responses to Chapter 4! You make me smile so much, and I'm thrilled that you bore so well with Richard, and what happened there. I appreciated it so much._

_This chapter is much happier, I promise. Huge thanks to Pemonynen and EOlivet for listening to me overthink things constantly and helping me to work things out. They're wonderful. :)_

_With that, enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Again, and again, and again, Matthew's eyes scanned that last line of her letter. His throat was dry, palms clammy with thick heat that fogged his sense as he tried to understand, couldn't believe, barely dared to hope. Glancing at the map already pulled out to the side on his desk, he traced over the distance again between his corner of the city and the elegant little district of Knutsford, barely half an hour away by train he reckoned.

Of course, Downton itself wasn't _so_ very far away by train, but… the implication of this was so very different. And of course… it was impossible. They'd agreed, it was for the best, for their own sake and their family's that their feelings might not tear up the surface of things but, oh, to only see her again! To see her, hear her voice, be close to her, would be pleasure enough.

Knowing his own naivety for such thoughts, chiding himself to think more clearly (difficult as it was), he took a breath and read her letter again. More slowly, more carefully. He saw rationally that there was no suggestion there; she was to travel with Violet and though she hadn't mentioned Richard there was no reason to believe he wouldn't come along, and in any case the purpose was to visit her godparents.

Not him.

But perhaps a tea with Mary and Violet together, it wouldn't be out of the question, would it? Though of course he couldn't do so, could make no move himself because of course he had no right to know of their plans, even. He felt sick, unsure, dizzy with excitement and equal dread at the thought of seeing her, or _not_ seeing her, simply _her…_ being so near to him, and yet so impossibly far.

Taking a pen, he gripped it tightly between his fingers to still their trembling, moistening his lips before he wrote.

_12__th__ May 1920_

_Mary,_

_For the second time in as many letters you leave me without the slightest idea of what to say. At least here I see the advantage of a letter, or you'd be faced with my pitifully speechless expression and I know you'd only laugh. But what lovely news it is! I've never had cause to visit Knutsford myself but have always heard it's a beautiful area. Will you be Cousin Violet's valued and sole companion, or is it to be a family trip? Whatever the case, I'm sure you'll have a splendid time._

_As for me, you'll be pleased to know that Mrs Jemson has forgiven me for spoiling her coat. I think she understood it was an accident, and more than that found it so funny when I arrived home a few days ago completely drenched from the rain – I've never known why some find the sight of perfectly sodden people on bicycles so amusing, it isn't funny at all, but there you go – that she took pity on me. Hopefully the weather will be much, much better for your visit._

_I'm sorry, again, for the news about Downton. All of it. I suppose there are many decisions to be made, but I will continue to pray that whatever is best will be. _

_Look after yourself always, my dear,  
Matthew_

It was inadequate, he knew it, and sat back frustrated. He couldn't _ask_, he couldn't suggest anything, of course he couldn't. It simply wasn't possible, when she'd been the first to say they must keep a careful distance, when she stood to lose everything. It wouldn't be fair. And yet… he hoped she would know, he hoped she could tell, that if she might… want to see him, perhaps, even with Violet, even with all the world around them (it would be better that way, surely)… it would be very, very welcome by him.

No, it wasn't enough… and, smiling to himself, just in case, knowing that she would understand, he added a little postscript of his own.

_P.S. You're quite right; I've looked at a map and it seems Manchester is not so far at all._

* * *

Mary smiled, every breath a careful restraint of the giddy, girlish excitement fluttering in her chest as she reached the end of his letter. Lingering on it a moment longer, she nodded to herself as she folded it back into the envelope and replaced it on the table.

"Thank you, Isobel," she said pleasantly, revealing nothing in her expression. Isobel had cautioned her before, and would again no doubt, but Mary had spent the last week fighting her will that helplessly formed impossible plans, desperately tried to convince her that it would be alright just to _see_ him, safely, in company… and she was losing the fight as excitement built and the weekend drew closer.

"You're welcome, of course," Isobel smiled back as she stirred her tea. "But Mary, you must be careful."

Of course, there was a 'but', and Mary remained still as she indulged her companion's inevitable warning.

"I know. You must know that I've considered that."

Isobel carried on with conviction. "I know it's tempting, and I know it will be hard to be so close to Matthew when you both feel as you do. But considering what happened before–"

"Isobel, really–"

"–it would be naïve to imagine that you can resist it again. Especially with the freedom you would find there."

Oh, Mary knew she was right, she knew it would be foolish to see him at all, but she couldn't help that her heart beat faster at the very prospect. No matter how she tried, it was too much.

"There's hardly such freedom as you think," she replied calmly. "Especially with Granny by my side, and anyway you know that I've no idea where Matthew lives or works."

Isobel frowned, unconvinced. "And we both know that such barriers aren't impossible to overcome. I'd be very wary, my dear, that your writing to each other so comfortably hasn't fooled you into believing that talking together in person would be so easy. I just don't want you to be hurt, either of you; that's all."

Mary's eyes lowered as her mind turned over Isobel's words. Maybe she had a point, but… they _had_ achieved restraint in their letters, while still understanding that every word spoke of a love that must be hidden, and surely the same principle would apply in public, in person. So long as they kept to that, perhaps… no, it was impossible, _impossible_, she knew that and surely Matthew did too. She shook her head, looking up again.

"I know that, and I appreciate it, truly. Of anyone, believe me, I know how much there'd be to lose." Even if she found everything in his arms again, even if together they found that perfect fulfilment… it would only be for a moment, painfully fleeting, and then it would be gone once more and their lives as empty as before.

_Absolutely not._

* * *

Despite her overbearing caution, that Thursday afternoon Isobel had bid Mary a very pleasant trip with a fond smile and a kiss, and wishes that the time away would be just the ticket to refresh her spirits.

Sitting beside Violet on the train now, idly watching the countryside rattle past the windows, Mary began to think that it just might.

She'd been pleased to discover that her grandmother had arranged for them to stay in a hotel, commenting wryly that '_they're all perfectly pleasant people but one can have too much of a good thing. Better to have our space to retreat to, my dear,' _and Mary quite agreed. Space was just what she needed now, space to see their family and go again as she pleased, space to be herself in somewhere new and not bound by duty to anyone at any time. How instinctively well Violet had seemed to know what she would wish, and Mary was impossibly grateful.

After spending a pleasant afternoon settling in and going for tea, Mary and Violet dined with their family at their fashionable home. Her godparents were pleasant enough though they'd never been close, and Larry was a rascal as he'd ever been (Mary despaired at how a man could be so unchanged by the war, still unable to take anything seriously it seemed), but the change of atmosphere was incredibly welcome. Far from the stifling coldness of Haxby and the gloom and memory of Downton, this in comparison was sublime. She sighed happily.

Everything was really quite perfect… until Larry decided the conversation was altogether too dull.

"So it's a dreadful shame about your sister, Mary. We were all sorry to hear it."

Mary, and Violet too, turned curious eyes to him.

"What do you mean?" she said, genuinely puzzled. Neither Sybil or Edith were unwell or unhappy as of late, there'd been no great calamity, besides that to the family as a whole. But how could they possibly know…

Larry waved dismissively. "That scandal with the chauffer. Must have been awfully embarrassing for you all, having her run off like that. And if it wasn't enough that he was the chauffer, an Irish radical at that!"

"Larry…" his father warned quietly, but Mary barely heard as she fixed him with an ice-cold glare that remained perfectly calm.

"His name is Tom, and there's nothing to be sorry for. It's hardly a scandal when it's agreed and they're married, and I know she couldn't be happier."

As she spoke, Violet watched her carefully but contributed nothing. Of course it was a scandal, they all knew that, even if all it amounted to was gossip and shaken heads. But family came before all that.

"Even so," Larry went on, "_she_ might be happy as anything but it's hardly the best she could do, is it? How disappointed your parents must have been, but I suppose it's all blown over now."

Angered by the petulance of his attitude, Mary remained unbowed.

"Disappointed? Quite the opposite. My sister married the man she loved, and there's hardly disappointment in that."

Her fierceness brooked no argument. Larry backed down with a sullen expression, but not before muttering loud enough for them all to hear,

"If you say so, but not everyone would say that's a wise choice."

"A brave one though," Violet commented at last. "Maybe not wise, but certainly brave. Sybil was very lucky to marry as she pleased; not everyone is afforded the same fortune."

The conversation moved thankfully on, but Mary was deaf to it, staring at her plate, her appetite suddenly diminished. Violet's words had been too pointed, too sharp, too knowing. _A brave one_, Sybil was always the brave one, she didn't care what people thought but Mary… oh, how she wished she didn't care, _hadn't_ cared, what people might think. Sybil was happy, Sybil had been brave, Sybil had married the man she loved, but Mary… _loved_ Matthew, loved him so much it was a constant ache entrenched within her soul, but she had not been brave enough to take him. Of course there wasn't only that to blame, there'd been Matthew's stubbornness too, but if they'd only both been brave enough to _try… _if she hadn't given in…

Her fingers closed tightly around her fork, determination cresting in a fresh wave in her chest. She could be brave _now_, she loved Matthew, and he was so agonisingly close! She would not let cowardice steal this chance from her, from them. Richard be damned. Though she was still trapped by her husband, she knew that, could never escape the fact and he would not let her go… Matthew was _here_. And she knew with the deepest conviction that whatever happened, she would see the man she loved while she was here, and able to. And she would be _happy_ to see him, even if only for a short while.

Nothing was going to get in her way.

* * *

As they breakfasted on Friday morning, Mary and Violet chatted pleasantly over the weather and newfound gossip and their plans for the weekend ahead. The freedom of it made Mary feel wonderfully light, unburdened, able to do just as she pleased with not a soul to answer to. She felt heady with possibility and didn't want to waste a moment.

"We only need meet Margaret for tea this afternoon, perhaps lunch as well as these things are expected I suppose," Violet pondered aloud. "I know you won't want to be joined at the hip to we older folk, Mary dear, so you must do something you like tomorrow. I'll see Margaret and the family again, but there's no need to keep you too. There must be much you'd rather do in Manchester or roundabout."

Mary laughed lightly. "Thank you, Granny, I'm sure I'll be able to amuse myself."

"Oh, I've no doubt of that," Violet's eyes sparkled with her grin, and Mary shook her head as she reminded herself that her grandmother couldn't possibly know… and, even if by chance she did, she certainly didn't seem to be discouraging things. But such thoughts were dangerous and Mary dismissed them at once. They smiled together, both feeling pleasantly full from their croissants and coffee. Breakfast being done with at their leisure, they rose to get ready for the day.

"If you don't mind," Mary touched Violet's arm quickly to pause as they walked through the lobby, "I'd like to place a call at the desk before we go. I won't be long."

Violet waved her off, smiling as she walked away. "Of course, of course. I'll be in my sitting room when you're ready, so just come through."

Waiting until Violet was safely out of sight up the stairs, Mary hurried to the enquiry desk of their elegant hotel, her stomach in knots. She had no reason to feel guilty, this was not _wrong_, she reminded herself, it was perfectly fine and innocent.

Still, it took a great effort to calm the gentle tremor of nervousness in her voice as she politely asked for a telephone connection.

Shown into a private little booth, and grateful for it, Mary picked up the telephone and took a breath before holding it up to her face. She wasn't even sure this would work, and all her hopes may yet be dashed. But she must at least _try_…

"Hello," she said quickly when the operator's voice buzzed in her ear. "I'd like to be put through to the Ryder & Co. law office of Manchester, please." The company name was all she had to go on, gleaned piecemeal in conversations with Isobel and her family, and she desperately hoped it was enough. As she waited, long seconds passing in agonising silence, her heart was in her throat.

At last the telephone seemed to rattle with a distant, shrill ring, cut off abruptly by a click.

"This is Ryder & Co. solicitors and law office, Manchester; how may I help?" a dull, monotonous voice sounded in her ear.

Mary bit her lip. "Hello, I –" She breathed, slowly, "–believe that a Mr Crawley works at your firm. Would he be available to speak to, please? I'm afraid I had no other way to–"

"Mr Crawley is busy with a client this morning," the man droned back, cutting her off. Mary's eyes closed as she sighed, her grip on the telephone tightening. "You may leave a message with me, or schedule an appointment for next week to see him if you'd rather."

"No. No, there's no message," she murmured, fighting down the disappointment of so nearly reaching him and failing when she'd barely begun. Of course, it had been ridiculous to hope… She straightened, her voice strengthening with resolve. "Please will you let him know that Lady Mary telephoned, from the Ellesmede Hotel in Knutsford. That will be enough."

"I will inform Mr Crawley of your call… Lady Mary, I presume."

"Yes – thank you, so much." She'd barely caught her breath when the call rang off and the low dial tone hummed in her ear. Replacing the contraption almost reverently, Mary returned quickly to her room feeling almost faint with so nearly crushed hope and the anticipation of the possible. Perhaps she could convince Granny to leave a little later this morning, or to go on without her if need be, if only she could explain her delay somehow… For now, though, she had done all she could.

* * *

Deciding it would probably be better to be honest rather than not, in the long run, Mary admitted to Violet as soon as she joined her upstairs that it had been Matthew she was trying to speak to.

"It's such a long time since we've seen him, and it seemed a shame not to when we're here anyway. Of course he might be too busy anyway," Mary shrugged, feeling an immediate sense of relief at the openness. Secrecy at this point would be silly, and would only suggest that they had something to hide. Somehow it felt safer for Violet to know of their plans; after all it would be perfectly normal to see him as family while they were here anyway, there was nothing to feel guilty or secretive about (she'd tell herself that it was only Richard's jealousy that had given rise to her caution for it, she couldn't admit how founded it was, not here and now).

Violet smiled enigmatically back. "Quite so, in fact I think it would seem uncharitable if we didn't. I would like to see Matthew; see if you can corner him for tea on Sunday afternoon before we leave. What a good idea to telephone him."

"Alright," Mary smiled. She felt justified and happy, given leave to see him with good reason, and even if it came out once they were back then Richard could hardly complain against Violet's approval. It was all she'd hoped for, all she'd expected. She was going to see him; that was all, if they were able to manage it.

It was only a little over an hour later when a polite, insistent little knock sounded on the door to Mary's private sitting room. When Mary bid them enter, a concierge in white gloves held out a silver tray to her with a message card on. It informed her simply and concisely that a telephone call was holding for her at the front reception desk – a Mr Crawley, if she'd care to take it.

It took all her restraint to maintain a normal pace down the stairs, and by the time she'd been shown once more into the little booth where the telephone lay already off the hook, her chest felt almost painfully tight with anticipation. She knew it was girlish and silly, and the very fact irritated her, but just now she couldn't care.

She picked it up with trembling hands, and in a quick, quiet voice said,

"Hello?"

There was a beat, a second's silence too long to be normal.

"Mary…"

He sounded as breathless as she felt, and she clutched the receiver to her ear, smiling so widely it ached.

"Yes," she whispered. "It seems you were given my message, then… I was rather worried your clerk, or whoever he is, wouldn't pass it on – he sounded rather pressed for time."

"Oh, that's just his way… I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry if he was rude to you." Matthew's voice was low and rich in Mary's ear and she felt it pleasantly all the way to her toes. He chuckled deeply. "I almost had a fit when he told me you'd telephoned over an hour ago, I was furious and terrified I'd have missed you… poor chap, I'll have to make a point of being especially nice to him next week. But Mary, how are you?"

"Perfectly well," she laughed, delighted by his indignation at having not been able to speak to her immediately. However wrong her feelings might be, she couldn't help them now, she adored him too much. "I suppose I must tell you straight away that Granny hopes you'll meet us for tea, on Sunday afternoon, if that would suit."

He didn't answer immediately, and Mary found herself able to picture him just so; the tiny crease in his forehead, his gentle swallow and tongue darting out to wet his lips as he considered her words.

"So… you'll see me, then? I mean, we'll – well I hadn't been sure," he stammered quickly. When she hadn't replied to his letter, he hadn't known whether to hope, being powerless to make any move himself and knowing how improper it would be, however innocent their intention (_perfectly_ innocent, he reminded himself sharply). "I hadn't known if it would be alright."

"With Granny at our table, we'll hardly be in danger," Mary smiled, thrilled at the immediacy of speaking so directly to him like this. But a voice down a telephone line wasn't enough, they both knew that. "It's probably better that way."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Matthew said, and Mary heard his little sigh. It made her heart clench.

"But…" _Stop_, her mind screamed at her, and her heart battled back that _it will be alright, we'll be sensible, we can do this – absolutely not, you know it's impossible – but… _"I'm at rather a loose end tomorrow, while Granny gossips the day away with my godmother. I've never visited Manchester before, you know."

It was enough, the invitation understood – she could hardly be more direct than that – and she held her breath as she waited for his reply.

"Then," he said at last, slowly, as if every word had been so carefully considered; "you will be in need of a decent guide, I suppose."

"I suppose so, yes."

It was impossible, of course, but just for a moment Mary believed she could almost hear the smile spreading slowly across his lips.

"How fortunate, you see I think I know just the person to help."

* * *

After that it was quickly arranged between them, and the remaining hours of Friday dragged by with agonising slowness. Matthew was relieved that his diary that afternoon was so full, the work at least distracting him in part from the reality that tomorrow, so very soon, he would be seeing Mary again.

There was a small voice, quiet in the back of his mind, that suggested he should feel guilty for such pleasure at the prospect of seeing another man's wife. Another man's wife, who he had kissed and made love to, just once, the memory of such pure and unrestrained passion making him shiver involuntarily.

But that could not happen again. No, it could not happen again, and tomorrow he was looking forward to simply enjoying her company in the city he'd grown up in, and nothing more. There could be nothing more, there could never be.

This would be enough, and the pleasure of the thought drove the lingering guilt away.

That night he slept deeply, his whole soul seeming at peace as he looked forward to the morning. And when it came, at long last, he couldn't keep the smile from his face as he all but ran to the train station. And there he stood, waiting, waiting (he was dreadfully early, her train from Knutsford wasn't due for another half hour but to delay had been unthinkable), until a puff of steam in the distance – he checked his watch, it was the right time, this was it – signalled its arrival.

As the little local train pulled into the bustling station and stopped, there were only a small number of people who clambered out and made their way with purpose, to friends or family or the busy streets beyond.

But there, amid them all and walking towards him, her simple elegance and beauty making Matthew's heart leap and stop as it had from that very first day, his breath catching nervously in his throat that felt suddenly bone dry… was Mary.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! I'm having such fun writing this fic, and it means the world to me that you guys are enjoying it too. I'd love to know what you think, and how you feel about how it's turning out! Your reviews, comments and support brighten my day to no end. Thank you :) :)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Welcome to a bumper length chapter! They got rather carried away from me... I hope you won't mind that. :P Here we are for Mary and Matthew's Day Of Fun (as it is forever known in my head now, thanks jenninthecity! :D)_

_Thank you so much for your continued support and enthusiasm, it motivates me a huge amount. And as ever to Pemonynen and EOlivet for the polish and keeping me in line!  
_

_Enjoy! :)_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Matthew knew the precise moment that she noticed him. How she became very still for an instant, as he had, how her eyes brightened and her expression bore that imperceptible change that shone with pleasure, and more than that how the world around them both seemed to shrink and compress and fade away leaving the two of them and nothing more.

He breathed, the train whistled, a man's shout echoed behind him and the world reasserted itself around them. But unlike so many times before, when phantoms of his imagination would vanish in the bustle, this was not a dream… and she was there.

"Hello," he said almost shyly, a smile just hovering on his lips as if he couldn't dare to trust this, yet.

She stood just a step, maybe two, away from him – close enough for her perfume to carry in the air, close enough to see the freckle that dusted her throat – and smiled.

"Hello," she said just as quietly back.

He held out his hand. She placed hers gently in his. They touched, stared mute at the connection as if it might break and shatter… but it didn't. And when his fingers lifted hers for his lips to graze softly over her knuckles, they sighed, and stored away the touch in precious memory. Matthew felt elated and taut with tension, knowing he'd already taken a step further than he should've done but unable to process any thought of danger or consequence. Mary was here, with him, they were together, and it was enough.

Even so, much as his every instinct cried to offer his arm to her as they walked, he reigned the impulse in and simply inclined his head with a smile as he turned.

"Shall we, then? I know you must've been dying to see whether the city conforms to your expectations."

"And you know me so well to imagine what those expectations are, I suppose?" Mary laughed, almost relieved as the sharpened tension seemed to simmer and settle between them, falling naturally into step with his long strides.

He glanced at her beside him, and though she didn't turn her head she felt the smile curve upon his lips with the weight of his gaze.

"I know you _quite_ well, I think…"

"Better than anyone," she quietly agreed as a gentle blush coloured her cheeks. Then shaking herself from the reverie that seemed to have trapped them, she smiled more brightly at Matthew and said, "So, Matthew, we'll see how rightly you judge my appraisal!"

From the station, they strolled along the busy streets, neither paying much attention to the city around them. As Matthew pointed out the cathedral and led the way, he asked of cursory little things like how the trip had been so far, how the family were, how was her journey… inconsequential things, nothing that mattered except that they were about _her_ and she was here, beside him. They were free, with no watchful eyes to question them, and it felt wonderful.

"You're–" Mary began to say as they passed through a pleasant little park in the shade of trees, before her lips abruptly closed. "You probably won't want me to mention it, I'm sorry."

His voice dropped, softly. "What is it? I won't mind, I promise. How can you be afraid to say anything to me?" he smiled encouragingly, and it wasn't quite an accident when his fingers brushed hers.

"I only noticed… that your walking seems to have improved so much since Christmas. Your stick must be quite redundant now! I'm so pleased to see you're still getting better."

"Oh… yes, I suppose I am," he blushed a little; of course Mary would notice, he thought, and though the topic normally filled him with discomfort he couldn't mind at all. "The warmer weather helps a great deal. I try to bicycle as often as I can, the doctor doesn't seem quite sure whether that helps or harms, but… honestly, I hardly notice it now, and I don't use my stick at all much now. Only if it's particularly cold, or damp."

He shivered, the conditions under which his lower back still ached reminding him unpleasantly of the more extreme conditions he'd existed in to suffer it.

Mary squeezed his hand, just for a moment. "I'm sorry. But it is lovely to see you so recovered!"

"Thank you," he laughed, easing the tension within him. Anything to distract him from memories of _that_, which still plagued him in nightmares, and he didn't want to think of it now, with Mary. Being in the cathedral calmed him, to as calm as he could be in her presence at least, though he shivered looking around him at every reminder of faith and morality that he had betrayed by his love for her.

Moving quickly from there, they wandered between towering buildings and grand, wide squares, and Mary listened with polite interest as Matthew pointed out their features and history. Though the subject and architecture didn't interest her so much, to listen to his enthusiasm was quite engaging enough – but she preferred it infinitely when such notes were interspersed with stories of his own, how he'd fallen into that fountain as a child or slipped and scraped his knee on the step of that building, the first law firm he'd worked at and the vibrant gardens he passed through on his way to work now.

She felt as though she didn't stop smiling all morning. Of course she'd been nervous about how things would be between them, but… really, it was blissful. That tension was there, always there, warming the back of her neck as he leaned closer to murmur something or as his hand rested lightly on her lower back to help her through a doorway… but they were quite in control, there was no danger, no-one to hide their smiles from and the whole world around them to protect from the passion that simmered thrillingly between them and keep it at bay.

Soon they stopped for lunch, and the intimacy of sitting at their table for two in the corner was almost too much. Mary fiddled with her napkin in her lap, noticing the little crease above Matthew's eyes that signalled his discomfort. He'd become quiet, suddenly, now that they were sitting here together withdrawn from the bustle.

The white-gloved waiter who came to serve them only made things worse, addressing Matthew in smooth, polite tones.

"What would your wife and yourself care to drink, Sir?"

"Oh we're not– I mean–" he spluttered, before catching Mary's eye and calming his breaths. He smiled weakly at the waiter. "My _cousin_ and I would like coffee, please, and a jug of raspberry lemonade."

"Of course, Sir. My apologies," the tall man nodded and left.

Matthew sighed, running a hand back through his hair.

"God, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't think–"

"It's alright," she cut him off with a drawn smile. "You corrected him, after all." She stared at the wedding band, trapped around her finger like a curse. Matthew noticed, and swallowed.

"How are things?" he quietly asked. They had not mentioned the subject, nor Richard, since meeting that morning. It was unpleasant and unspoken between them, but no matter their feelings, the reality of her marriage was all too sharp.

Mary shrugged. "As they always are. He telephoned yesterday evening, checking up on me I suppose – he was furious that Granny insisted we'd only need her maid, so Harris can't report my every move to him after all."

"I can't say I'm disappointed by that," Matthew chuckled. "I don't suppose he'd have been too delighted by you spending the day with me."

"No, I suppose not."

The gentle smirk that curved Mary's lips at the thought of why made Matthew tremble.

Throughout their meal he remained quiet, pensive, and Mary wondered what was wrong. If the waiter's slip had affected him so much, if mention of Richard had upset him… she wanted nothing to spoil their day, and this brief time they were snatching together. Awareness nestled uncomfortably in the back of their minds, how precious this chance was, how it might never come again.

She tried to lighten his mood again.

"Manchester has seemed quite lovely so far," she smiled with enthusiasm. "Not nearly so dirty as I expected it to be!"

This made him laugh, and her heart beat a little quicker with pleasure.

"I'm glad you think so! Living here has never done me any harm, after all," he teased her lightly.

It was a lovely city indeed, but even so there was always that weight beneath their words and their pleasures, the secret that could not be spoken where ears could hear.

"I envy you the distraction of living here," she admitted quietly. "Honestly I'd far rather Richard and I might have lived in London, with far more company and diversion. I know he chose Haxby for me, to stay near my family but… never mind, I'm sorry." she trailed off miserably.

Matthew had been watching her carefully, saddened by her quiet resignation. If only… he wanted her to be happy, as happy as she could be anyway, that was all.

He licked his lips. "What about… Downton?" he asked, tentatively.

"What?"

"Downton. You said that – with things as they are – Richard wanted to sell Haxby and buy. I know that you don't want him to hold it over your father... But really, my dear, wouldn't you be happy to have the home that was always meant to be yours?" His questions were careful, weighted, and Mary frowned.

"It's yours, rightfully, Matthew."

"It shouldn't be. You know that I'd have always given it to you, if I was able to. If you might have the chance to have it now, and keep it for your family… it wouldn't matter to me, to lose it. I mean it." He leaned forwards, his voice serious and low, as he tried to make Mary understand. "If that would make you happy – Richard besides – please, Mary, tell me."

"No," she said, fiercely determined. "I couldn't be happy there, not bought with his money at my father's expense. I can only pray that someone may give my father a better offer first, and save his humiliation from Richard's crowing… It's hopeless, Matthew."

"I see." His throat was dry, and his hands flexed on the table, aching to tell her but the words wouldn't come. How could he bring this upon them now, when there was so much to think of, when all they'd desired was a pleasant, carefree day together? Oh, he thought derisively, it could never have been that.

"Please," Mary sighed, not knowing why he seemed so determined to go into it now. "Let's not talk about that any more."

Matthew nodded. "Alright."

Later… maybe later, but not now as their meal was finished and there was not the time, it would be too much all at once and he was terrified to give voice to the truth that he knew. That _he_ could save it, but… he'd wanted to know, first, if there was any other way. The chance was falling away minute by minute, and he could make no decision without Mary's acceptance. Soon, he was determined that he would, but such a topic was too much for now when he could see that tension above her brow and longed to lighten it.

He suggested a walk through the gardens nearby, passing through a lovely little shopping arcade if she'd like, and her smile was brighter by the time they'd stepped back into the sunshine of the street. This time, daringly, he did offer her his arm as they walked.

She smiled, and took it.

* * *

As they walked, Matthew's affection for the city he'd grown in, fought for, and come back to was obvious and infectious. Mary saw charm in it, reflected in his eager voice and gestures, that would have simply passed her by before. Walking through streets a little less broad, now, away from the elegant buildings of the very centre, they came to a building that Matthew pointed out as his office. It was a smart, well-kept area, and Mary took it in with a sort of fondness as they continued on. Just down there, he explained as he pointed down another avenue, was the house he'd lived in with his mother before their lives had changed forever.

Another turn, another sunlit park where shade dappled under the trees beside a small lake, and out into another street, as they talked and talked, staying carefully to topics that were harmless and easy to speak of. Their path seemed aimless, unconscious, neither of them minding where they walked as their attention was fixed on the other… the timbre of their voice, the sway of warmth beside them, the elegant shadow they cast together.

"Oh," Matthew stopped abruptly and looked up. Slowly, Mary uncurled her hand from his elbow where it had been comfortably nestled, and looked at him curiously.

"What is it?" she asked, teasing him. "Have we wandered very far from civilisation?" She squashed down the faint thrill that shivered down her spine.

He chuckled. "No, it's… stupid of me really, I wasn't thinking and I suppose my feet just carried themselves without me realising…" A gentle blush coloured his cheeks, and he waved his hand at the tall, iron-gated town house beside them. "This is where I live."

"Oh!"

Mary turned again, looking up at the building with a new appreciation. Matthew's home. In fact now that she looked… yes! Leaning slightly, she could just see a set of familiar handlebars resting against the wall where the path ran down beside the house. She felt strangely delighted, and terribly afraid. "It looks lovely," she nodded her approval "Very respectable!"

"Thank you…" Matthew cursed himself, feeling an absolute fool. How could he bring her here? If only he'd thought, if only he hadn't been so idiotically captivated by the simple fact of Mary beside him, bringing her to his home as if it were the most natural thing… His lips parted instinctively to speak, the urge pressing him helplessly as his more rational mind screamed at him _no_, but he was weak against his will.

He gestured again. "Would you – like to see inside?" Her expression instantly reflected the confusion of panic and desire raging in his own head, and Matthew blinked quickly in an effort to salvage the mess he was making, the danger he was threatening to throw them into that in his heart he didn't want to resist. "Don't worry, Mrs Beetson is always in and she's the kindest soul – she'd be thrilled to meet you, she's often asking about my family."

Looking down, not daring to see his hopeful, shy, earnest face, Mary tried to be sensible. She couldn't _possibly_ go into Matthew's home. Even if he were inviting her in as a cousin, just to meet his housekeeper, just to see the rooms where he sat and thought of her and wrote to her, none of that condoned the foolishness this would be. But perhaps it would be impolite to refuse, and she wanted no further mar on their day together that was fleeting all too quickly, and… from the corner of her eye she saw his hand flex nervously at his side. She looked up to his face, and knew at once that he was battling the same desires and sensibilities as her.

Somehow, that made his simple, innocent offer even harder to refuse.

"Well, I'd… love to," she found herself saying, and gave a wan smile. Oh, she _would_ love to, but _should_ she? It was too late, he was moving down the path and to the door, signalling her to follow and she did so. "But just for a minute or two, Matthew."

"I know," he said quickly. "No, in and out, that's all. Just so you've seen it, while we're here."

It was a test, he thought to himself as he opened the door and showed her into the main hall. Just because they might find a moment alone together, that didn't mean they would inevitably fall. They weren't that weak, surely? They must have more strength of will than that.

Mary looked around her, intrigued, as she followed his lead inside. The hall was neatly furnished and spacious, rather like a reception, from which carpeted stairs led up to an open landing. Matthew opened the door to the dining room, where large windows allowed light to flood in from the street, and small tables lay spread just far enough apart to be private. He showed her which he generally sat at, and where other residents took their place like the young couple from Wales with a new baby, and Mrs Jemson whose coat he'd so nearly ruined.

"How charming," Mary beamed, and Matthew was pleased for her approval. "It must be so interesting to live with all sorts of people like this."

"It is," Matthew nodded, "but really I only see them at breakfast or dinner – if we're about at the same time of course – or if we cross paths in the hallway. I think there's a man living on the second floor I've never even met. But it suits me, quite well."

As they came back into the hall, a small woman appeared from another door who seemed about Isobel's age, Mary judged, with primly swept hair and a wide, bright smile.

"Mr Crawley!" the woman greeted Matthew warmly, and Mary guessed at once that this must be the housekeeper he had spoken so fondly of. "I hadn't thought you'd be back so early today."

Matthew smiled and shook his head. "I'm not, quite; we're just stopping by. Mrs Beetson, this is my dear cousin Lady Mary – staying with her grandmother in Knutsford at the moment – Mary, this is Mrs Beetson, who owns the house and makes sure I am far better looked after than I deserve."

"It's lovely to meet you," Mary extended her hand politely, seeing immediately why Matthew was so at home here. "Matthew's mentioned you several times in his letters and has always been very complimentary."

"Ah, has he?" Mrs Beetson looked pleased, and took Mary's hand. "I must say it's good to see him with some company for a change!"

Matthew rolled his eyes, and the older woman pulled a face. "I do worry, sometimes, that he keeps to himself so much. But he knows that, and–"

"–just as well as _you_ know that I'm quite content and occupied with my work and reading. There's plenty of good company here if I should choose it, I know that."

Mary watched the exchange, the barest impression of tension disappearing as fast as it had arisen when Mrs Beetson shook her head and patted Matthew's arm.

"As long as you're happy with that, Mr Crawley. Now, I'm sure Lady Mary would be more comfortable in your sitting room – do show her up, and I'll bring some tea in a moment."

Matthew immediately protested, without success. "Honestly, we hadn't intended to–"

"I insist, absolutely. It's no trouble and I'd be ashamed if I let you both go without, so there we are."

Before he could object any further, Mrs Beetson had moved across the room with a rustle of her dress, leaving Matthew and Mary to stand together uncertainly in the hall.

"She's very kind," Mary said softly, eventually.

"Too kind," Matthew laughed. Reminding himself of his earlier assurance, that as long as he kept his sense about him there was no reason this was improper at all, he gestured to the stairs. He licked his lips nervously. "Anyway, my rooms are upstairs – just on the first floor, I'll show you–"

It would be impolite to refuse, after all, Mary told herself. Equally as determined as Matthew, she took slow, deep breaths as they went up to the landing, and Matthew showed her to a white-painted door that bore his name on a small brass plaque by the side. Of course they could be sensible.

The door opened directly into a wide sitting room, with a window at the side that overlooked the gardens. It was simply furnished, with a small table and comfortable chairs, and a desk beneath the window scattered with files and blotting paper. It was functional and masculine, yet with a warmth that struck her so familiarly as being Matthew's.

Her skin prickled with the feeling of how at home she felt, here.

"There's not much to it I'm afraid," Matthew smiled gently, taking Mary's coat and gloves before setting them down upon one of the chairs, his own coat slung over the back of it. Looking around again, Mary saw only two doors against the back wall that she assumed must be his bedroom and en-suite. Without dwelling on the modesty of it or his shyness, she wandered to the desk and smiled. It smelled of ink and leather and him.

"Is this where you write to me?" she asked, and wondered which drawer he stored her letters in.

"Yes," he answered softly, and she turned to see his gentle, loving smile.

She pictured him there – it was so easy to – sitting with the evening sunlight on his face and catching the gold in his hair, his expression focussed intently as his pen wove across the page and left ink stains on his fingers. She thought of him sitting in the chair, there, as he read her letters to him and his face gradually transformed into a smile with the comfort of her words. She thought of him sitting here when the light had faded, alone, far from his family and ensconced with his books and letters and files… every day the same as another… and a crippling sadness suddenly descended upon her.

Very quietly she said, "I suppose I must be honoured if you don't bring much company here!"

"Mary…" he frowned, taking a step closer to her. "You mustn't pay attention to Mrs Beetson, she means very well but she worries too much."

"Does she?" Deceptively calm against the storm within her, Mary shook her head slowly. "I don't suppose you've ever entertained a young lady here before."

"I'd have no reason to!" Matthew spluttered, agitated and not understanding what point Mary seemed to be trying to make. "Why on earth do you think I should–"

"Because you _should_, Matthew!" she suddenly cried, overwhelmed by the realisation crashing over her. "Don't you see? Do you expect to stay your whole life here, like this? By yourself?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," she sighed, closing her eyes as her hand came to cover her mouth before she recovered. Calmer, now, she spoke slowly and carefully. "You should have… a wife, Matthew, and a family. You deserve that."

The blood chilled in his veins.

"Don't say that," he argued, his voice low and trembling as he fought against her words. "I don't… _deserve_ anything."

"You deserve to be happy, you deserve to have a family–"

"No, I don't!" His fingers curled into fists, his body simmering with uncomfortable truth. "I don't deserve any of that, and I – _couldn't_, Mary. Even if I wanted to – I couldn't. I couldn't marry any woman, it wouldn't be fair, not when I… could never love her as much as I should."

She hardly dared look at him as the next words left her lips, knowing how they would hurt him, but knowing she must.

"What about Lavinia? You would have married her."

The room fell silent, even the tick of the clock was beyond their notice as Matthew struggled to breathe.

"You know that was different," he choked. "When Lavinia had been prepared to sacrifice so much for me… Mary, it was never the same as–"

"Oh God, I know!" The cry left her lips suddenly, silencing him. "Don't you see, Matthew? I've been so selfish…"

"Mary, please..." His voice broke as he came to her, reaching for her in comfort but she pushed his hands away.

"Don't," she pleaded with him, tears blurring her eyes. "Don't be so blind! Before Lavinia came back, when you were wounded at first… why did you send her away?"

Matthew blinked, his gaze lost in the sorrow and strength of her deep brown eyes. He swallowed, lips trembling as he answered her.

"Because… I didn't want her to waste her life, when I could offer her nothing."

She nodded, and took his hands. His fingers curled tightly around hers, and they clung together, at breaking point.

"You felt that was right, and later you said that if there was the slightest chance that you stood in _my_ way of marriage – of a _real life_, as you put it – you would jump into the nearest river." Her chest ached with love as she saw the desperation in his eyes, the glittering tears that hovered on the edge of falling as he made his mute agreement. She had to be strong, though it was tearing her apart. "Please, grant me the same courtesy, darling," she begged him. "What can I offer you? Nothing–"

"Mary, don't–"

"_Nothing_, Matthew. You know how impossible it is. Don't waste the life you should have by clinging onto what can never be. I should never have written… It was easier to forget and go on, before. I'm sorry–"

"For God's sake, don't be sorry!" he gasped. Her words cut him cruelly, however right he rationally knew her to be. They had been stupid, so very stupid, but the thought of losing her again… of saying goodbye again, of cutting ties as they had _known_ they must, again… He felt sick.

She was close enough that he could see the palest freckles on her skin, the fine lines on her lips, the glisten of tears in her bright, passionate eyes. "If you want," he bit through the knot of agonising love in his throat, "we will do as we said at Christmas. But please, my darling, don't ever ask me to forget… or to move on, or to love another. Oh God, Mary, you don't know how much I love you!"

"I do!" she cried, and tugged her hands from his to touch his face, her palms smoothing across his cheeks, into his hair as she forced him to look at her and understand. "Believe me… I do."

The air between them was heavy with anguish, as their locked eyes bared souls and they knew. His hands had dropped to her waist, and he felt the tenderness of her touch and her closeness, realising without doubt that of course she knew… How could he ever doubt the strength of her love for him? But that was what hurt, so much, what made his gut clench with frustrated passion as their love could never be…

Their breaths that gasped back tears mingled, the space diminishing to nothing as he kissed her, because he had to, because there was nothing else he could do in that moment to express what he felt.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, lost against her lips as she kissed him back with equal measure. They stumbled together, she felt the solid resistance of his desk at her back as the warmth of his body pressed to her front, and a soft, assenting murmur escaped her lips. Her hands slipped from his hair to clutch at his collar, pulling him closer, needing him as desperately as he wanted her.

It was terribly wrong, an irrevocable path, it didn't need to be said. It needed to be fought, but the harder they tried, the more fervently their passion rose. His firm hands had lifted her to perch on the edge of the desk, her dress sliding naturally up as he stepped closer and pulled her hips flush against his. She gasped at the heat, the raging pressure of arousal as his mouth caressed her own, lips suckling together as desire clouded their sense. Memories crashed back, of this, and skin, and ecstasy… Their love was impossible to deny.

His mouth lowered to her neck, his tongue dancing across her porcelain skin, and Mary gasped sharply as the heat shot to her core. She clutched at his shoulders, feeling his hot breath tickle her throat. "Mary," he was murmuring, and she could only catch the odd, broken word. "Darling, I want… shouldn't… Oh, God, I want… this properly…"

And then she was in his arms, her legs tightening instinctively around his hips as he lifted her and she found herself suddenly face to face with his striking blue eyes, their intensity reaching the depths of her soul. "Tell me to stop… and we will," he whispered in earnest.

Of course they should stop. And she knew that he would… She knew that if she wished it, he would put her down in an instant and they would leave, and go back to the gaze of the world where propriety must rule. However much it would cripple them to do so, having tasted fulfilment and now longing for more…

"No," she breathed, and drew him into a sweet kiss, their lips parting in languid adoration as tongues touched intimately together. She was already undone.

Matthew's arm shot out, his fingers searching blindly for the handle of his bedroom door as he supported her weight against him and kissed her, and kissed her, and wished he could never stop… He didn't want to stop, and didn't dare think about afterward, or the fact that she was not his wife to take, or the reality of their future. _This_ was his entire existence, this moment, to be united with Mary, and he couldn't think beyond it.

Carefully he lowered her to his bed, his body held in dizzying tension above hers as her eager fingers shed his jacket and tugged open his collar. He was torn, between slowing and savouring the preciousness and intimacy of their desire… and the more immediate urge to lavish his touch on every inch of her skin, to soar together in passion as they had before, to fulfil the ache of love between them. He couldn't think clearly, her little cries and gasps of pleasure clouding any sense left within him as his palms crossed from silk to skin under her dress… to lace, as his fingers slipped beneath and her back arched up off the bed.

She clung to him, kissing him desperately as her body shuddered with each teasing caress of his fingertips. His touch was so tender, so sure… and he relished the privilege to do so, to pleasure her and love her, the taste of her lips intoxicating and addictive.

But just seconds later, everything shattered around them in a cold crash of reality as a persistent, bright knocking sounded at Matthew's door.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Please don't hate me for ending it there! (Draft one was even more infuriating for poor M/M, trust me). Story purposes demand, and all that... I'll make it up to you (and them) next chapter. Promise. (If they play along anyway...)_

_Thank you so much for taking the time to read - I'd love to know what you think! :) _


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _Hello! Firstly, I'm so sorry I haven't replied to reviews for Ch 6 - I got rather distracted writing this one, I hope you'll forgive me! Thank you so much for them nonetheless, I truly appreciate them - it's so interesting to hear what you all think! And thank you so much to Pemonynen and EOlivet__ for their support and encouragement. I find this such a delicate topic to handle, particularly with such complicated characters as Matthew and Mary - but I can only write what I feel they would do, and I hope you'll enjoy it!_

_That being said, please notice the rating change... ;P Their day certainly isn't over yet!_

_Enjoy...! :)_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Mrs Beetson waited patiently for several moments, shaking her head as she knocked again a little more loudly. Mr Crawley so rarely had company, she supposed, that he'd quite reasonably be distracted from answering the door.

Only a few seconds more passed before it opened at last, and she smiled brightly.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long, but here's your tea."

"Oh it's quite alright, we were… quite alright, Mrs Beetson, thank you." He hoped desperately that his cheeks were not so flushed, his voice not so breathless that she'd notice as he tried to stifle the frustrated arousal still raging so freshly within him. If she did, she passed no comment; but still Matthew didn't release the nervous breath he was holding till she'd set the tea tray down on the little table and left, closing the door behind her once more.

Mary sat gracefully on one of his chairs, and he admired that her composure was so swiftly recovered – to every appearance, at least.

"I'm so sorry," he sighed as he slumped onto the chair beside hers, aching with awoken desire. But the moment of madness had passed, now, and sense had reasserted itself, much to his frustration. "I should have thought. I should never have–"

"Oh Matthew, don't be sorry." Mary smiled bravely and reached across the gulf between them to squeeze his hand, leaving hers resting with his on the arm of the chair. The touch calmed them both as they came slowly down from the suddenness of their passion. He smiled wryly, and after a little while poured tea for them both, hoping it would help.

Mary sipped hers slowly. "We should probably be thankful for the interruption," she reflected, though she sounded sorry for it. Matthew remained quiet, knowing she was right and resenting the truth of it. "I suspect I have less moral objection than you, darling, to… betraying my marriage." The words were difficult to say and admit, however she felt. No, she felt very little sense of guilt over her adultery; she did not love Richard and the only thing to 'betray' was the legal fact of their relationship. So unlike Matthew… She smiled. "You've always been the better one of us in that sense… But right or wrong aside, it can't go on, can it?"

"I know. I wish I didn't care, because… oh God, I want… I love you, so much…but I know it's _impractical_, and insensible. It's impossible, isn't it?" He sighed heavily. They'd always known that, for Mary's sake who had so much more than him to lose. They couldn't possibly go through life simply snatching moments like these, however blissful they might be. They would be found out, surely, and one day if children became involved… no, it was impossible.

The fresh realisation of it was suddenly suffocating.

"Of course it is," Mary said softly.

In silent contemplation and grief they sipped their tea, trying to ignore the crackling tension still so potent between them, trying to convince themselves again of the need for restraint and sense. But it was difficult, so difficult.

"I should take you back to your hotel," Matthew said at last, with a sigh. "Cousin Violet will be expecting you back for dinner, I suppose."

"Actually she isn't, she's dining with the Greys again and spared me having to join her. But even so, we'd best make a move."

"Well…" Matthew hesitated, standing up as he retrieved their coats. "In that case, would you have dinner with me on the way? There's something else I need to talk with you about, only I haven't found the right moment all day."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Goodness, that sounds very serious. Should I be worried?" Her tone tried to make light of it, while her mind raced as to what it could be.

"No… No, I hope it will be good news. But it is serious, nonetheless."

"Well, alright."

She smiled and tried not to notice, as he helped her on with her coat, how his hands smoothed down her arms, his breath so close on the back of her neck… Matthew swallowed, and fought the urge to lean forwards and kiss that smooth skin behind her ear, his hands lingering a moment on her elbows as he breathed through the hot thrill of desire. She felt it, and shivered. God, this was hard.

"I suppose we were lucky," Matthew murmured behind her, still, "to have stopped…" His fingers flexed on her arms, and God, he was so close… "I mean, we were fortunate last time there were no… repercussions… but we couldn't be so reckless again, darling."

Mary drew a sharp, silent breath, the memory of her fear in that first month of the New Year flooding back to her. They _had_ been reckless, to not think of a child…

She turned in his arms, hardly breathing as his hands settled again on her waist. She saw the unbridled desire in his eyes, the pinch of his expression as he tried to restrain it, as if he longed for her to argue with him and tell him no, it would be alright, they need not worry again…

"I suppose so," she nodded with difficulty. No, it had to be this way, because the ache of being so close to him and wanting him was absolutely unbearable. She swayed forwards and pressed her lips to his, kissing him sweetly and chastely, feeling the tension shiver between them as they relished it for that moment without allowing anything more… The urge to part lips a little more, to taste a little deeper, to let hands touch and roam, was frighteningly strong and they broke apart, almost dizzy with their love and the loss of their chance to realise it.

Matthew snatched his coat from the chair as he went to hold the door open for her.

* * *

Mrs Beetson was surprised to see them leave again so soon, but Mary thanked her graciously for her hospitality and insisted she must be getting back to catch her train, and then they were on their way.

The fresh air of the morning had turned colder and thick as they walked without talking much, each too preoccupied and on edge with desire still to think of anything sensible to say. Matthew's head spun with regret, but he hardly knew what for – that they'd come so close to losing themselves again, or that they'd been stopped before fulfilment? He was bitterly frustrated with himself, for both those reasons, and frustrated with the longing that coursed through him still. More than that, he was preoccupied with the conversation they must now have. Would she hate him for having kept it from her for so long? Would she agree with his perspective on it? The very prospect had been so private, so intangible to him for so long…

Mary noticed how pensive he was, and walked quickly beside him, hugging her arms around herself in the cooling air. She longed to break the silence, but what could she say? Her body simmered with the remnant of having been brought down so sharply from the edge of bliss, and she pressed her lips together in an effort to stem her irritation. It had been for the best, she reminded herself sharply.

Soon, they'd reached the busier streets of Manchester's centre, and drew into a pleasant restaurant just off St Ann's Square. In an effort to avoid the mistake of their luncheon, Matthew introduced Mary as his cousin to their waiter even as they were seated, though he couldn't help how his heart sank a little at doing so. The thrill of a little while's pretence was so tempting, but… stupid, he knew.

Only when they'd been served – quickly, and elegantly, Mary was impressed to note – did Matthew broach the delicate subject.

"The thing is," he began, picking nervously at his meal, "I believe I have the means to help your father. I don't yet, but… I think I will. Soon."

He said it with a straightforwardness that defied belief, and Mary's fork clattered to the table in her shock.

"What on earth do you mean?" she gasped, glancing around to see that the disturbance had gone unnoticed. "Why have you never said so before now?"

"Because it isn't… final, yet, and I wanted to be sure that there was no other way – or, no other way you'd rather." He watched her, and saw as she remembered their conversation at lunch, so blindingly clear to her now.

He had the means to save them… but he'd have given over the chance, for her. She felt numb with shock. She couldn't understand.

"…How?"

Matthew pulled a wry smile. "Do you remember why I left, on Christmas day? A friend, who wasn't well…"

"Yes, of course."

"He died, the day after I'd arrived. I was glad to be with him, and mend some fences… Mary, it was Reggie Swire. Lavinia's father."

"Oh." She couldn't say why, but she felt suddenly sick. She took a sip of wine, and stared at Matthew, who looked almost apologetic. "So, he… left you something? How can it be enough?"

"He left me everything. And… it's a _huge_ amount. I had no idea, not the slightest – anyway it wasn't supposed to come to me; there were two heirs named prior, but it seems both of them actually passed away before Reggie. Which means that the whole lot will come to me – when all the paperwork is done with – in another three weeks or so, I reckon."

"Good heavens."

She swallowed, unable to say anything else for the moment as she tried to process this. Reginald Swire, Lavinia's father, leaving Matthew such a fortune… and then, unbidden, a long-forgotten conversation sprang to mind about Lavinia's own little scandal, and Mary suddenly wanted to laugh. Lavinia's father, Reggie Swire, who'd been saved from bankruptcy by… her own husband, Sir Richard.

It was too incredible to believe.

Terrified by her silence, Matthew spoke quickly in his fear. "I don't want it, you see – God, I don't deserve a scrap of it. Not when he named me an heir thinking what a wonderful man I'd been for his daughter to fall in love with… No, I can't take a penny for myself. So I thought – God knows I've caused your family enough grief, and _you_, my darling – if I can use the money to repay all the wrong I've done, somehow, to do something good for someone, then I'd like to. Only I wasn't sure–"

"Why on earth not!" Mary exclaimed, her eyes wide. "Matthew, you know how awful it's been! Why on earth would you hesitate? If you don't want the money for yourself, I can understand that–"

"But in a way it would be, don't you see?" he shook his head. "I can save Downton for now in good conscience, but I wonder… if I mightn't live there, when the time eventually comes to it. You see, Mary, I hadn't known – if it would be what you'd want."

"How could there be any question of that?" Disbelief clouded her mind, after everything she'd said, after he'd _known_ how desperate they all were!

"Because…" Matthew licked his lips, and Mary noticed how his fingertips restlessly tapped together in his unease. "It's all very well and good for now. But after everything we said at Christmas… One day, it will be me in place there and not your father. And if you're so close, in Haxby, still – if you have children–"

"Or you do," she added, raising her eyebrow in reference to her earlier admonitions. He didn't like it, and neither did she, but the possibility surely couldn't be ignored.

"Whatever the case," he shook his head sharply, dismissing that argument for now. "I wanted to know what you thought of it, if you didn't think it might be easier for us in the future… if Downton would not be my home. It's up to you, my darling. Seeing as I don't deserve a penny of the money for myself… I want to be sure I do the right thing with it, I hope you can understand that."

Mary stared at him, saw the sincerity and earnestness in his eyes, and understood the choice he was giving her. Slowly, she nodded.

"I think so," she murmured.

And the choice seemed such a simple one. Though she afforded due consideration to his worry, and she did so desperately appreciate that his first thought was of her, it did not take her long to find an answer.

She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "But Matthew, that future you talk about is a long way away. I hope so, at least! I hope it will be many years in the future, and there won't–" Her voice lowered to a hushed whisper. "There won't be any children, I can safely say that – and as hard as it _may_ be in that future for us, I couldn't bear Papa to spend the rest of his life till then facing the humiliation of losing his home! Not knowing that it could be helped."

"Alright." Matthew nodded, his lips twitching to a brief smile. Somehow he'd known her answer would be such – her family always came first, before her own needs or desires, even at her own sacrifice, and he loved her so much for it.

"Thank you." Her voice threatened to tremble, her eyes shining brightly with gratitude, and Matthew couldn't help but reach across the table to take her hand, finding strength in the gentle caress of her fingers against his.

"I'll write to Robert and tell him as soon as I can," Matthew promised, and Mary nodded, so desperately thankful to him for her father's sake.

Perhaps everything would be alright after all. Who knew what the future held? It could be years before Matthew took his place as Earl, Richard and Mary might have moved to London anyway or maybe Matthew would spend most of his time there instead of at Downton… There would always be a way. There would have to be.

And then Mary's words caught up with him, and his hand withdrew to his lap as he frowned at her curiously. He swallowed, and quietly asked, "What did you mean, to say there won't be any children?"

Mary paled, and he knew at once that he shouldn't have asked. God, it wasn't something he liked to think of – the very prospect made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach – but she had seemed so sure of it that something about it felt odd. "I'm sorry–" he immediately began to apologise, but Mary shook her head.

"No, it's alright." She hadn't spoken of this to anyone, not Isobel or her mother and _certainly_ not Richard – not yet – but her heart fluttered strangely now to think of telling Matthew. After all, he knew her better than anyone, and she loved that he did know her, inside and out. Playing idly with her knife, she lowered her voice again. "I don't want you to make a big thing of it – please, Matthew – in fact I can hardly talk about it at all, so please don't ask beyond this. The fact is… I'm so sure of it because it's impossible. I can't – there's something – Doctor Clarkson said it would only take a little operation to fix but I don't know that I want to, even. One day, perhaps. But there, that's it."

She shrugged a little, as if such a thing could simply be brushed off and forgotten, but Matthew sat facing her in shock.

"My God," he choked, "Mary–"

"I told you, it's alright!" Her voice rose a little, her stern expression enough to settle him to silence. "It makes no difference to my health otherwise, so there's nothing to worry about – but you see, that's why I'm so sure. Please, let that be the end of it now."

He nodded, mutely, as Mary fixed her attention again on her dessert, scraping up the last of the smooth cream onto her spoon. As if everything was normal, as if such a conversation had almost never taken place… but his mind was left reeling as he tried to comprehend what she'd told him.

Distraction came as the ornate gilt clock over the doorway chimed quarter to six, and Matthew glanced up.

"If we want to catch the six o'clock train–"

Mary nodded and wiped her lips delicately as Matthew paid their bill, and they walked briskly back to Victoria Station. The sky had darkened, the air was colder, and the quiet between them festered. Neither had known what to say since their revelations over dinner, it was all too much, and now the end of the day hung over them like a shadow. It had gone too quickly! Matthew walked in bitter silence, wishing they could make the most of the little time they had left but not knowing how, not knowing what to say that would matter and mean anything as they had to part.

He didn't want to. He didn't want to leave her, and he wondered if she was just as aware as he was of their closeness, of the way it made his palms sweat and his throat dry… but it didn't matter, did it? Nothing had changed, not really. He was in no position to ask anything of her… no matter how much he wanted it, and _God_, how he wanted it… no, he must be stronger than that.

As they approached the shelter of the station and platform, the rain began to fall. Small drops at first, then fatter, and faster, till they splashed on the tracks below. Mary shivered, and longed for Matthew's arm around her – only he couldn't, could he? – and she was glad when their train came quickly and they clambered into its warmth.

The train was quiet, their compartment even quieter as they sat together on the plush seat. Mary stared out of the window, as much as she could while it steamed with moisture rising from their damp coats, and tried not to be so hopelessly aware of how close Matthew sat beside her.

She could feel him, and then see his reflection in the glass, and he was handsome… So breathtakingly handsome, and she sighed, and the glass clouded even more.

"Thank you," she said softly, and twisted around to smile at him. She gave a little shrug. "You didn't have to come all the way back with me."

"Of course I did," he chastened her fondly, and they both knew that there had never been another choice. Matthew's eyes lowered. "Even if I didn't _have_ to… I wanted to. Anyway I'd hardly be a gentleman otherwise!"

Mary laughed. The train rattled onwards, and the tension that had strung between them all afternoon somehow eased, somehow sharpened, as their destination came near. They couldn't think of the end… It ached too much, and so they ignored it, and enjoyed their closeness in this moment, as if trapped in time aboard the train.

But too soon, it ended, and they stepped out again into the storm of the real world.

If Matthew had ever intended to bid her goodbye at the station (and truly he hadn't thought of _when_ they'd say goodbye; to leave her at any moment seemed unthinkable), the idea vanished as rain drenched them in moments on the unsheltered platform. Here it fell heavily, noisily, and Mary gasped as it slid down the back of her neck.

This time Matthew didn't think twice before wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closely in to his side as they hurried together through the little station building and to the deserted street in front.

"How far is your hotel?" Matthew asked, having to raise his voice above the sheeting rain and squinting as it fell in his eyes. Though the evening was early still, the sky was dark and thick with sudden cloud. "There'll be no chance of a cab now, in this weather…"

"It isn't far," Mary shouted back, lifting her purse uselessly to shelter her face. "Only a ten minute walk or so."

"Ah. Well, it could be worse!" Matthew smiled at her, lifting his eyebrows in a cheerful grin as he tried to make light of their situation.

Mary couldn't help but laugh, and was grateful for his arm around her, guiding her as they walked quickly, their feet splashing in deepening puddles as rain soaked through to their skin. They walked too quickly to talk, and it seemed that all too soon they'd come to the end of the winding path where the grand hotel stood with lights gleaming proudly in the heavy spring downpour.

"Thank God we're here!" Mary unpinned her hat the moment they were through the door, patting her damp hair where strands had fallen and clung to her neck. The movement, so natural and unconscious, transfixed Matthew who found his gaze trapped on the droplets of water on her cheek, on her neck, longing to… oh, God, he couldn't be thinking that now! Not when he had to leave… He really _should_ leave, now he'd brought her safely back, but he couldn't seem to move or speak. His throat was bone dry, a sharp contrast to his sodden body and clothes, and he licked his lips.

As if suddenly aware of him again (had she ever not been?), Mary stopped, and looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable, an attempt to mask her longing and her fear of parting once more.

Heavens, it was ridiculous! They'd had all day… A lovely day… and would see each other again tomorrow for tea, and then… she had no idea beyond that.

Matthew swallowed again, racking his brain and ignoring the rising panic, the screaming guilt, in his gut. There was a feeling stronger than that, but he had no reason to stay. He couldn't possibly.

"Well, I should, um… go," he stammered, and was entirely unconvincing. Mary simply stared, still, her appearance of elegant serenity masking the raging torrent of emotion within.

"Do you want to go?" she asked, after a moment. It was simple question, an innocent one, or might have been at least. "It's awful weather outside still."

"No…" he answered quietly, his heart pounding in fear and his body aching to the point of trembling with wanting her. He was terrified to leave, and terrified to stay. Either way seemed wrong... But would it be so much more wrong, to be here with her now in sin, than to return to his home and think of her as he sated his own frustration in shame? His cheeks flamed at the thought, knowing he'd feel condemned by either choice and yet when faced with her here, it was frighteningly easy to make. He shook his head, banishing all thought of doubt. "No, not yet."

Mary only nodded, and inclined her head to follow him. He did so, powerless to do anything else.

He followed as Mary paused briefly at the concierge desk, hearing only dimly as they welcomed her back and hoped she'd had a pleasant day.

"Quite, but it's dreadful outside now. My cousin has been kind enough to see me safely back – we'll go upstairs to freshen up a little before he braves the storm again. Is Lady Grantham in, yet?"

"No, Lady Mary – she telephoned to say she may be later, with the weather. And not to wait to see her."

"Thank you," Mary nodded, with all manner of calmness as she beckoned Matthew again to follow.

"It this alright?" he whispered breathlessly behind her, though he already knew her answer would make no difference.

"Of course!" she said, failing to convince either of them, truly. "It's perfectly reasonable. The rain is awful and I've explained who you are. There's nothing wrong with that at all."

Nothing wrong with that, sure enough… and it might well be perfectly reasonable. Mary told herself so, again and again, as she unlocked the door to her suite of rooms and slipped inside, Matthew following closely behind.

They might have had the best, the most reasonable, the most innocent intentions in all the world. There was nothing improper on the face of it, after all.

But the moment the door closed behind them both, the dim light of a stormy evening coming only faintly through the windows, all other thought disappeared. All manner of sense, of guilt, of consequence, of propriety, was driven out in that instant by overpowering desire that had lingered and simmered and strengthened all day, only heightened by their interruption earlier and the revelations since, that made them forget all else.

They faced each other, and Mary's hat slid from her fingers to fall to the table beside her.

She barely had time to breathe before he'd closed the airless space between them and drawn her into a fierce, desperate kiss.

His skin was damp, cold, but heat speared within them as they swayed together. Her lips parted without thought to welcome him, and he kissed her deeply, his fingers delving into the wet, straggled tangle of her hair. Only their breathless, gasping murmurs of pleasure broke the silence as her hands worked frantically to shed his coat and jacket.

There was no hesitation now, no restraint, no possible thought of stopping.

Matthew had found those precious droplets of rain lingering on her collarbone, his lips drawing each of them up in tender sips as she pressed closer to him, sighing happily with anticipation and delight of every sensation he invoked.

"Darling," he gasped, "where–"

"That door," she pointed, knowing instinctively what he asked. As much as arousal was sending them mad, the determination remained to do this _properly_… Not on the floor, not closeted in secret in a study, not _quite_ so thoughtless… but to be together, in bed, knowing what was to come and relishing every impossible moment of it.

He carried her, his arms strong around her hips as she tugged at his tie and kicked off her shoes, loosening his collar to taste the dampened skin of his throat. Pushing through the door into the large bedroom, the elegant four-poster standing tall in the middle of the room, Matthew set her down gently beside it and tried to breathe.

He felt lingering drops of moisture fall from his hair, where her fingers twisted now to hold him in a blistering kiss as he pulled uselessly at her coat and dress. The clothes were sodden and heavy, difficult, and Mary groaned in frustration as she helped him to remove them. Able to drag his lips from hers only for a moment, Matthew stared at her in awe, clad only in her thin, rain-soaked camisole and stockings that clung to her skin.

"My God, Mary…" He swallowed, his hands stroking reverently over her arms, her waist, her hips… She tugged at his belt, pulling him closer, kissing him again as his hands smoothed up, rumpling damp silk beneath as his palms came to her breasts. "Please…"

"Yes," she breathed, losing her mind at the feel of his hands and his body against her, driven almost wild with need.

He pressed forward, and she tumbled to the bed, pulling him down with her as they shifted together in senseless desire. She heard the clatter of his shoes falling to the floor, heard his stifled moan of passion as she unfastened his trousers and arched her back, aching to bring herself closer. It wasn't enough, they couldn't think, could only feel such wonderful, overwhelming sensation as his lips closed hotly over her breast, his tongue lavishing her through damp silk as she cried out and writhed beneath him. Her hands teased beneath his open shirt, slipping easily over skin wet with rain and sweat as she felt the sharp tug of material from her hips, then… then… oh, God, his body driving within hers and filling her with a single, powerful thrust. The feeling was intense, almost painfully arousing and perfectly fulfilling, and she sobbed in ecstasy as he moved and thrust again, and again, and again, unable to stop as their flesh joined so perfectly. Heat rose from their skin and clothes, making the air thick, breaths heavy as each pump of his hips, each gasp of indulgent pleasure, came quicker and sharper and fiercer. Still, it wasn't enough, and their bodies slammed together as Matthew's hands braced and gripped the slick skin of her hips, hers fisting into his soaked hair, mouths locked in a feverish kiss as the sensation built and flooded into a storm of bliss, encompassing and devastating in its strength.

Mary's willing body shuddered with his force and it was too much, everything tightening and shattering and falling apart. Her jaw clenched as she convulsed and bit back her scream into his shoulder, and he heard her, felt her, knew her in every possible way as his peak followed and crashed with such intensity, breaking apart in her arms with a ragged cry before their dampened, trembling limbs at last relaxed, and slowly stilled.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you ever so much for reading!_

_I know that a lot of issues cropped up in this chapter. M/M still have a lot of working things out to do, and they will. I felt that Matthew's attitude to his inheritance would be different here from canon, as it's not like he profits so directly from saving Downton as he would then - he isn't saving it for 'he and Mary' in their happy marriage after he'd betrayed Lavinia. He still feels a little of that guilt, but saving it for Robert and the family now isn't saving it 'for himself' so much. He's in a very different place, now. Regarding Mary's condition and children (or lack of) - this is an AU from 2x08, and I realised there was no reason that would have changed. _

_Anyway sorry for the ramble there, but I just wanted to explain my thinking behind it! I'd love to know what you thought, and thank you so much!_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _Bank Holiday weekend, so here we are again :) Thank you again for all your enthusiasm and support, especially to Pemonynen and EOlivet without whom I'd be tying myself in knots and this fic would be getting nowhere!_

_And off we go...!_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Matthew's fingers trailed languidly up and down Mary's bare arm, watching with detached fascination as faint gooseflesh rose under his touch. His mind was still fogged with the hazy remnant of lust, barely noticing the sheets that were damp from their sweat and rain-slicked skin, as they'd silently stripped the rest of their clothes and found a heavy chenille throw from the sitting room to cover them as they lay together, calming. He'd peeled the silk camisole from her torso, tendering reverent kisses to her breasts as they were fully, finally revealed. Her stockings had clung to her legs, and he'd rolled them down with such care as not to rend them, his warm hands followed slowly by his lips. Her soft sighs had been a balm to his trembling rush of ecstasy, soft sighs that as his mouth rediscovered the precious warmth between her thighs had become quicker and sharper, teased again by the gentle, insistent licks of his tongue and the heat of his mouth to another shuddering peak.

His shirt had swiftly joined the rest on the floor, and Mary had indulged herself to relearn every inch of his pale and scarred skin, flesh dappled by war or smooth and soft, a reminder of an innocence and youth not quite forgotten. And then at last they'd curled together in blissful nakedness, cooling bodies kept warm by the throw and tangled limbs as they soothed their passion with gentle kisses. Despite the darkness of the storm outside the evening was still early, and with Mary's suite quite separate from her grandmother's, there was no immediate hurry to extricate themselves from such contentment.

There had not been the time, or the will, to consider that what they had done was wrong. It had felt far too right, far too perfect, such an exquisite fulfilment of everything within them to be that.

Mary shivered at the light caress of his fingers, observing him in her closeness, the clouded blue of his heavy-lidded eyes and his hair utterly wild from her hands. With some effort she lifted her arm, enough to push the fallen locks back from his forehead, then continuing to stroke through it as it settled her to do so. To see him so undone was beautiful… but she knew him, and knew that this peace could not possibly last, trying to ignore the little ache in her heart that told her so.

His palm smoothed over the curve of her hip, curling around her back to pull her more closely against him. He sighed.

"I'm not sorry," he murmured. "I know I should be, I know… and I will pay for it tomorrow and for the rest of my life because I _know_ it isn't right, but my darling…"

"It's alright," she soothed, her fingers combing through his hair in a calming gesture, trying to ease the guilt that she knew would come. No, they _shouldn't_ have done this, but God… how could they not?

She felt his body stiffen, saw his eyes darken in agitation.

"No, it _isn't_ alright!" he muttered sharply, hating himself for being distracted by this now, but the fact was something he couldn't just put aside and forget. "It isn't and it can't _ever _be while you're still his wife–"

"Matthew, please… Don't let him intrude between us here."

"But he _does_," Matthew sighed, his eyes closing as she pressed warm kisses to his jaw. His arms held her more tightly, more possessively, treasuring the untenable fact of her slender body against his. "He's always between us. I wish… there were a way…"

"We've been through it all before, darling," she whispered against his neck, clinging to him in the painful knowledge that soon she must let him go again. "I can't divorce him, and he wouldn't do me the service… can you imagine!"

Matthew didn't want to imagine. Even if Carlisle knew what had gone on between them, he'd only know of his betrayal and the satisfaction a divorce would give them, and surely he would make Mary's life a misery for it… His heart clenched with anguish and he brought her face up to his, seeking comfort in her tender kiss, fingertips wondering at the softness of her cheek.

"Then we'll… run away and live together," he shook his head, and they both smiled in dark resignation at the stupidity of the idea. Such scandal, as tempting as it may be, was unthinkable. They'd be together… Wonderfully, blissfully together but could that be enough for a lifetime, a lifetime that would be marked by scorn and isolation from everyone else they loved? It wasn't a dream, it was a fantasy.

"If only it could be so simple," Mary said wistfully. "You couldn't be much of an Earl from America, or wherever we'd go… and there'd be no real future we could have, without being able to marry. Anyway darling, you're far too honourable for that." She smiled softly, almost sadly, knowing that deep down Matthew would never be able to live with himself in such a way.

"I don't think I am, not after…this…" He swallowed, his thumb brushing against her breast as he recalled all the liberties he had taken with her, who was not his to take. Guilt stirred, faint and low in his belly, and he pushed it firmly away to trouble over later.

Mary sighed, pushing against the warm caress of his hand as her own stroked low over his hips and behind.

"You are," she said firmly, even as his every action suggested otherwise but that was beside the point… He was not _dis_honourable, he loved her with a strength that was both frightening and inspiring, and there could be no dishonour in that. "You are such a good man–"

"Don't, Mary!" he bit out, trembling in discomfort. "Don't say that, when I am the very worst." Every mistake, every betrayal, every moment of hesitation and stubbornness and stupidity that had hurt those he loved in the past came flooding back to mind, filling him with shame.

But she held him tightly, forcing him to look into her eyes that burnt with passionate conviction.

"Don't be ridiculous," she whispered fiercely. "I love you, as do countless others, so unless you'd question all our judgement and sanity please stop saying such stupid things. You aren't perfect, darling, nobody is – you make mistakes, but you are _good_, and you won't ever persuade me otherwise."

Matthew frowned, remaining unconvinced of his own worth… for how,_ how,_ could he have earned such a love as Mary's? Unless to have her love was his punishment: to have it, but be destined by his own fault to a life without her… He sighed, finding comfort in the sweetness of her kiss as their lips slipped together and apart, a slow and indulgent caress that could never be enough.

"So we must just accept it," he whispered against her mouth, wondering where he would find the strength to relinquish her again. "I don't know that I can…" His words trailed off as their lips parted into a languidly deep kiss, tongues sliding sweetly together.

As they slowed from newly building need to gentler kisses, trying to keep some sort of sense about them, Mary leaned her forehead to his, breathing in quick little gasps.

"Believe me, my darling… if there were _any_ way… any at all…"

"I know, I know," he groaned, feeling his body alight with the feel of her warm skin pressed to his. Now they knew, that this wouldn't make things any easier at all, it would only make their parting ten times harder… but they could not have denied it, and it was nigh on impossible when lying in her arms to wish that they might have changed this.

But the blissful feeling of this, of holding her slender, naked body in such intimacy against his own, only made Matthew more aware of the fact that it wasn't his right to do so. The fact pushed into his mind, relentlessly, unbidden and unwanted (not now, not here), and he gave a soft, sad sigh.

"What is it?" Mary murmured, her thumb stroking lightly over his cheek.

Reluctant to say it and afraid that it would shatter the delicate calm between them, Matthew shook his head at first. But the thought had too quickly infested his mind and he couldn't shake it, couldn't enjoy this simple and forbidden pleasure of being with his love while it festered unspoken, and soon it burst out.

"I hate the thought of you going back to him, and being with him," he said labouredly, almost struggling for breath as his fingers tightened reflexively at her waist.

"Oh, Matthew…" Despair threatened to crush her as she saw the desperate sadness in his eyes. "You know I hate it as much – _more _than you, if possible! Please, don't think about that–"

"No, I – have to ask, or – my imagination absolutely tortures me with it," Matthew swallowed uncomfortably. "I know he's your husband, and – all that is _proper_, but – I can't bear the thought that he can lie with you like this, and kiss you–"

To even utter the prospect aloud make Matthew sick, and his throat closed up in protest as he took slow, unsteady breaths. The idea felt like an almost physical pain, only compounded by the fact that his own jealousy shamed him when he had no right to it.

Mary pressed a finger to his lips, trembling with the effort of keeping such unpleasant thoughts at bay and composing that detached, disinterested countenance that she'd learned to bear Richard's inevitable advances with. It was the only way.

"Of course he comes to me," she said carefully, and slowly, her eyes fixed on Matthew's for strength. "Though I do try and put him off as much as I can, I can't do so every time. I made my choice after all, and must live with it–"

"God Mary, you _hardly_ had a choice–"

"Matthew–"

"It isn't _right_!" he snapped, and Mary felt his lean body tremble with barely restrained anger, at himself as much as the situation. "You shouldn't have to give yourself to him–"

"But I do; he's my husband and it's the law. Even so," she said calmly, "it isn't very often, and I bear it without enjoyment well enough. It's over soon and he doesn't… stay with me, afterwards. Not like this," she smiled faintly, and ran her hand down Matthew's chest between them to settle on his hip.

Matthew nodded stiffly, still simmering with frustration.

"I'm sorry," he whispered at last, "I know it's hardly fair of me to ask, or to care."

"Of course you care," she smiled sadly, and eased forward to kiss him, and again. "You care because we both know that if I were not bound in legal wedlock to him – which was my own choice, Matthew, whether you'd have offered me another or not – if I had free reign over my own body, I wouldn't look at my husband twice for the sake of being with you instead."

"Oh, Mary. It isn't right," he repeated with a sigh, and curled his arms protectively around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and feeling again the twist of shame and regret in the pit of his gut. His stubbornness had condemned them both, and there was no way to make amends but to live with the pain of it, bound together by family ties and forced to bear their separation despite it.

"No, it isn't," Mary shrugged, nestling into his arms. "But… at least I have the memory of being with you to think of afterwards, and that's… much, much pleasanter."

"Really?" Matthew said breathlessly, and looked into her eyes that were dark with fresh desire. "I mean, you… you think about – us?"

She nodded, and slowly her lips curved into the slightest little smile.

"Yes. Afterwards… when he's gone. It seems better that way."

Matthew swallowed hard, telling himself how wrong it surely was that Mary should banish thought of her own husband with the memory of himself, but finding the idea that she did helplessly arousing.

"I see," he murmured. The thought passed unspoken between them, that this evening at least would give them each new memories to treasure… and having just spoken of Richard and faced the uncomfortable truth of his inescapable presence in Mary's life, the desire to drive the thought of him away for now with the very real fact of their togetherness here in this bed flickered temptingly between them.

"You know it isn't the same," Mary's voice hovered softly between them, her finger tracing idly along his lower lip. He lifted an eyebrow in question, and all Mary could think about was how handsome he looked in this bed beside her, his hair messy against the pillows and his bared shoulder, the fair hair curling on his chest… and how she longed for him to stay, to stay beside her and touch her just like this, in contrast to how she could never wait for her husband to go and leave her in solitude. She swallowed. "When I'm with him… it isn't the same as with you – there are things I'd never–"

Gently, he kissed the fingertip that lay softly on his lips.

"I know, darling."

But it wasn't enough that he knew… Mary wanted to show him, to love him, to give him pleasure that she would never dream of letting her husband take from her. She moistened her lips and let her hand stroke through his hair, then down over his shoulder to rest against his chest. She wondered if he could feel how quickly her heart beat, her breaths becoming shallower as his palm grazed the curve of her hip, the pressure slight but just enough to drive her mad as she ached for more.

His low voice was barely a whisper.

"I know we shouldn't… God, I know that. But it seems… a little late to matter–"

"Just a little."

It was a poor excuse but they took it, hands finding eager purchase on skin as they kissed, this time not trying to deny the desire that flared up in an instant. Just for now, they told themselves, it didn't matter… they were already compromised, already fallen, what further condemnation could they induce? There'd be no gain in denial, and no more consequence than they'd already incurred for their lack of restraint if they were to give in… and so they did, choosing to take comfort in this while they were able to than dwelling on the fact that very soon they'd have to face the cold reality of their separation.

They spelled out their love with charged kisses, a tender touch, his fingers playing maddeningly over her breast as her soft murmurs of pleasure made him faint with arousal. He shifted to lie over her, his mouth following his fingers as he kissed his way across her precious skin, her back arching up to bring her closer to the taunting caress of his tongue.

He gasped as her fingers tightened in his hair, and lost himself entirely to the cause of her pleasure. Conscious of nothing beyond her touch, her scent, every beautiful sound from her lips, he worshipped her body with his hands and his mouth. When his fingers slipped between her thighs she cried out, drawing his eager lips up from her breast to kiss her deeply as she writhed against his hand. It felt like mere minutes had stretched into an eternity of bliss, his long fingers driving quickly in and out of her body as his thumb teased that spot of agonising pleasure, when she shattered beneath him.

Gasping for breath, her chest heaved as he soothed her with kisses, but it wasn't enough… it was never enough, between them. He didn't resist her gentle push to lie on his back, and she crawled over him as they kissed, feeling his arousal evident against her thigh.

She shifted, enough to allow her fingers to graze down against him, and she smiled in satisfaction as his body shuddered in response. Peppering his sweat-dampened neck with kisses, she touched him again with more confidence… and heard her name breathed upon his lips in the sweetest caress. She loved him, good God she loved him, and instinct drove her to ease herself down his body, her mouth working hotly over his torso and belly. She wanted to give herself to him, to have now as he couldn't ever again, more of herself than she'd ever dream to give to her husband. Her heart, her soul, belonged to Matthew… no matter what failures lay in their past or what hardships lay in their future.

She felt him stiffen in anticipation as her kisses shifted lower, feathering across the top of his legs as his hands fisted in the sheets by his side. She kissed the inside of his thigh, and shivered in pleasure at his loud, frustrated groan. Her fingers played deftly and closely, closely, till she felt him tremble in need.

"Oh God, Mary," he panted desperately, ashamed of his own state but aroused beyond belief, beyond anything he'd imagined possible. "Oh God, please… _please_–"

His plea devolved into a wordless, choked cry as her hot tongue licked along his length, followed by her slender hand and lips closing tightly around him. His hips jerked violently up and she hummed in pleasure, urged on by each his every little shudder and whimpering gasp. She drew him leisurely into her mouth, her other hand smoothing over the plane of his hip to steady herself and hold him fast, learning what he seemed to like as she lavished her tongue over him.

Such a feeling was heady and empowering, to feel connected with him like this as she loved him with her mouth and hands, focussed solely on his desire. Shifting a little more comfortably, she did not relent, not when his fingers delved into her hair, not when his hips began to pump rhythmically up past her lips, helpless and driven absolutely senseless with flaming arousal. It felt glorious, to hear his murmurs over and over of "_Oh God, oh God, oh God_…," to know that her own attentions were the cause of his ecstasy and to know that this would only ever be theirs to cherish.

Then his shudders grew stronger, the jerk of his hips more erratic, and she felt him tug weakly at her shoulders wanting, wanting…

"Mary, please," he gasped, "let me – oh God – Mary I want–" He ached to join with her fully, to please her equally, but was beyond the capability to express it as her mouth only worked quicker over him in time with her hand. She wanted to give this to him, was incapable herself of holding off this pleasure even for only a moment, and she carried on with relish, thrilled with the daring new prospect of sating him this in way and unable to possibly stop.

Fire swept through Matthew's veins, spreading out from his centre with devastating strength as he tried to cling to the last shreds of his control that were fast evaporating with each spasm of his hips up to the heat of her mouth. "God, Mary," he yelped again, as stars burst behind his eyes. "Please – oh God… damn… fuck, _fuck_!"

He lay shipwrecked, limbs splayed and trembling as Mary licked her lips, shocked but smiling while her hands stroked over the smooth warmth of his abdomen as he sucked in breaths. She felt inordinately happy, liberated somehow by the hot sting down the back of her throat and knowing what it had meant. As much as her body may be her husband's by right, _this_ (and not just this but their earlier lovemaking and the intimacy of their naked embrace) was hers and Matthew's alone. And it was more than anything Richard had taken from her, more than he ever could.

Leaning down, she kissed Matthew's lips gently until his eyes fluttered open.

"Such language, my darling… I'm quite shocked," she whispered, her smile wide and adoring.

"I'm… my God, I'm so sorry… I don't know…" He stopped to catch his breath, barely able to string a sentence together yet but, looking up into her eyes, he found calmness and strength in her gaze. "Darling, I'm sorry–"

"Why?" She shook her head, and pressed another warm, languid kiss to his lips. "Don't apologise… I rather liked it."

He laughed weakly. "Oh… Mary, I love you... more than I ever thought possible. Thank you…"

"Don't thank me, either!" she chuckled, stroking his hair back from his forehead, beaded with sweat. "Just be quiet and kiss me, darling."

She hardly needed to add, _while you still can_, the awareness hanging thick in the air between them as they kissed, and tried for a moment more to forget.

Only now did they hear, or rather not hear, that the storm outside had quieted… the rain pelting the windows less severely than before, the wind less fierce. The sky bore the dark of the evening, and the glow of the lamp from the sitting room was faint.

"What time is it?" Mary asked, her fingers dancing across Matthew's hip.

He crawled to the edge of the bed, leaning down as he fished his wristwatch out from his trouser pocket.

"Half past eight," he answered softly.

Mary sat up, her arms curling around her drawn-up knees as they looked at each other with sad acceptance. They'd both known it must come to this… that their fantasy must be broken, for fantasy was all it could be. Matthew stared down at his hand, tapping distractedly upon the sheet. "I should go…"

"I wish you didn't have to."

"I know. So do I."

As he stood gathering his clothes and drawing them on reluctantly, Mary watched him, cherishing every last glimpse of his skin.

"If I didn't have to call Granny's maid–"

"But you do," Matthew smiled sadly. "Especially after all the rain, it'd raise too many questions if you didn't. You deserve a lovely hot bath."

"I certainly do…" she chuckled, and stood up to kiss him, letting him pull her closely against him as they bade their wordless goodbye. "Don't forget tea with Granny tomorrow."

"Oh God, how could I!" he groaned lightly, trying not to dwell on the fact that they could not do this again, he could not kiss her again, could not take her in his arms and make love to her because… no, he didn't want to think about that. His guilt could burden him tomorrow, but not now.

They were almost at the door before he realised how stupid he'd been.

"What is it?" Mary questioned his look of consternation.

He shook his head. "Silly, really… of course I've missed the last train back. That's if they were even running still through the storm. It isn't a big matter; I'll take another room here, if I can."

"Oh, Matthew – won't Mrs Beetson notice if you've not come home?"

"I'll telephone her and explain. It'll be fine."

"Well, if you're sure that'd be best. But, then… maybe we'll see you for breakfast?"

"Maybe you will," he nodded, and smiled.

Her hand curled tightly around his and they kissed again, slowly, trying to memorise every precise taste and touch and sound and scent of the other. But time ticked on and too soon, much too soon, if felt, Matthew drew away.

"I love you," he said, and his deep voice rang with conviction. "Always be sure of that, darling Mary. Whatever happens, know that I love you, and will not regret a moment of this night."

"Me too, darling… Me too," she said, and kissed him once more before letting him go, and shutting the door quickly behind him. She leaned against it, taking several deep, steadying breaths. But such weakness was no use, and she went to find her dressing gown and send for her Grandmother's maid, replaying each treasured word and kiss and touch of Matthew's again and again in her mind.

* * *

The hotel lobby was quiet, now, as Matthew made his way downstairs and to the desk. The man there was different from the one who'd greeted Mary earlier, and Matthew explained quickly that he'd been visiting his cousin but what with waiting for the rain to slacken off had probably missed his last train back to Manchester. After a quick and apologetic telephone message left as promised to Mrs Beetson, Matthew followed the night concierge who showed him to his room.

Left to himself, and having nothing with him but the clothes he wore and his few day-to-day items kept in pockets, Matthew filled the porcelain sink with hot water from reassuringly creaking taps and washed himself. Steam rose as he scrubbed at his skin, and thought of Mary's gentle touch, her passion, her beauty, her strength, _Mary_… and he ached with loss, and longing, and shame for the reckless abandon with which he'd loved her against every moral code within him. Oh, he knew it had been wrong, but… but her marriage to Carlisle was _wrong_, not their love!

Frustrated, he dried himself and climbed into the narrow single bed. It was comfortable enough, but already he missed the warmth of her arms, the comfort of her breathing against his chest… Glancing sideways, he saw the customary Bible on the bedside cabinet and looked quickly away. He hardly dared to think of every wrong that he'd committed, they were too many to count, and guilt pricked at his conscience but… it faded in the face of how he loved Mary.

Against his better judgement they _had_ been together, and it had been… utterly glorious. For tonight, the feeling and the memory of her love was strong enough to lay his guilt aside, though he knew its strength would be his punishment in the days to come.

He tried to sleep, couldn't, tried again, tossed, turned, paced restlessly around the little room and tried again, but his mind would not settle. He thought of Mary, wondered if she struggled to sleep as he did, wondered if she thought of him as he had been thinking of her… reliving each moment, everything about her and them together… He got up and walked to the window, opened it, took a deep breath of night air that was fresh after the rain.

Nothing made the slightest difference, and he knew that he couldn't possibly sleep while she lay upstairs in this very hotel, so near and yet so impossibly far away.

* * *

Similarly restless, Mary lay in bed trying to read a book, but all she could think of was Matthew and how he had been there, just there, his head against that pillow and his fists clutching the sheets where they lay rumpled, the air of the bedroom empty now after being filled with the wondrous sounds of their love… It all seemed wrong without him, and she missed him, she _missed_ him so desperately. Seeing him tomorrow with Granny would be impossible but at least she would see him, see his warm smile and hear his voice again…

At first she thought she must be imagining it.

Of course she was imagining it, but… there it was again, a soft and unmistakable tap.

Somehow she was not surprised at all, and they didn't say a word as she let him in and he carried her to bed. He needed her, as she needed him, and they undressed and settled into bed with breathless delight at simply being together, sleeping together… his arm tucked snugly around her as she nestled into his chest.

They slept peacefully entwined together, as if they had always meant to be this way, as if it were utterly right to be so. But they knew it couldn't be… Merely a pleasure stolen for this night, granted by chance and eagerly taken, and they would not question it yet but treasure it dearly. It almost felt like a dream. The best, most beautiful dream.

Long before dawn, Matthew awoke. He felt her hair tickle his chin, her small hand over his hip and her toes against his calf. The sensation of waking with her was so utterly perfect, and so completely impossible, that his heart couldn't possibly contain it. He held her tightly, and she woke before long to find dampness against her cheek.

She kissed his tears tenderly away, and soothed him, and as the first pale tendrils of dawn crept above the horizon they made love again. This time it was slow, reverent, every touch and sigh crying out a love that would last though their relationship couldn't, a discovery and a goodbye that said more than they ever possibly could.

Before the sun rose any higher and the world stirred to life, he dressed again and slipped away, leaving her bed with reluctance but the sweetest, sweetest memories and an even surer conviction of her love.

She did not say goodbye to him again… she couldn't, but only kissed him once more and whispered that she loved him, and that was more than enough.

Unable to return to sleep, Mary waited until the earliest reasonable hour to send for the maid, and dressed. Guilt did not perturb her spirit, as she harboured no affection for Richard and had long ago accepted that if divine punishment were to be believed, she had already been suffering her lot for years. Instead she felt at peace, content and satisfied that she and Matthew had made the most of the time that they could.

God, but she would miss him… Still, there was today to face before she could think about that.

Just as she was contemplating ordering a pot of coffee to tide her over till breakfast, there was a firm, polite knock at the door.

"Yes?" she called, casually adjusting the string of pearls around her neck.

The white-gloved concierge nodded respectfully as he stepped just within the doorway.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Mary – I'm sorry it's early but there's a telephone call waiting downstairs." He held the little silver tray out with the card on top. "I believe it's your husband, Milady, Sir Richard Carlisle. He said he'd wait, if you weren't quite ready."

Mary paled, her fingers twisting the pearls as she smiled politely, fighting the weight that settled at once in her gut. He didn't know, he couldn't possibly know, it was absurd wasn't it?

"I see." With a little elegant shrug, she picked up her hat and stepped towards the door. "I was just thinking about a pot of coffee, so I might as well come down now. Thank you."

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _There we are, and thank you so much for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed it, and as ever I'd love to know what you think - can they possibly get away with having spent a night together? Was it worth it anyway? Until the next time, and thank you again :) :)_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _Hello, and happy Monday - bank holiday to all Brits, woohoo! Apologies for the delay in this chapter, I've been really struggling with tiredness in the evenings, but now it's half term I hope to get at least another chapter out before the end of it. Thank you so much for all your support in the meantime! It means the world to me :)_

_Now, this chapter... I've split what I had planned for it, because there would just have been too much. Half of the next part is written already, as it was quite a late decision to split - so hopefully you won't have too long to wait for it! _

_Huge thanks as always to Pemonynen and EOlivet, who are just invaluable for this to be happening. And with that, enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Mary's hands were cold as she picked up the telephone. Lifting it to her ear, she took a breath to calm herself before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hello, darling." Richard's voice sent an unpleasant shiver down her back, and she swallowed. "I hope I haven't disturbed you by calling so early."

"I was about to come downstairs anyway so it doesn't matter. Is everything alright?"  
If the shortness of her tone bothered him at all, he did not reveal it.

"Of course, my business in London has gone splendidly in fact. I just wanted to see how you are, if you had a nice time yesterday, to see what you got up to."

"I had a marvellous time yesterday," she said, softening despite herself as memories of Matthew waking beside her only that morning, after the night they'd spent together, encroached. She smiled gently, in the freedom of knowing that her husband couldn't see. Then, knowing that he would press for an answer (if he didn't know it anyway, she supposed), she said simply, "I took a tour around Manchester. There's some pleasant aspects to it after all."

There was a moment's silence down the telephone cord, static crackling in place of their voices.

"Ah, how nice. And what was your dear grandmother doing while you were off exploring?"

"Window shopping with Margaret; she pretends not to like her much but really I think…" She'd answered too quickly, without thinking, the words dying on her lips as she realised her mistake. Then, speaking quickly, she carried on as if perhaps he hadn't noticed. "You know Granny, she never likes to admit to these things!"

"No, I'll bet she doesn't." He sounded unnervingly calm, and Mary felt cold. Her fingers tightened upon the receiver. "So, am I to suppose that you discovered the city's gems all by yourself?"

Mary breathed slowly, carefully, her mind racing as she agonised over what to say. Of course she could lie, but… Once she'd boasted to Anna of how Richard's little spies could find out anything, God, anything – how careless had they been?

No… No. They _had_ been careful, they _had_ been proper, to any public eye at least… Her stomach fluttered but she answered, firmly.

"Don't be silly! We both thought it would be nice to see Matthew while we were here; it's been a long time since Christmas after all. He was happy to show me some sights and he'll be joining Granny and I for tea later on."

The silence before he spoke again was deafening, but Mary stood tall and unshaken.  
"I see."

* * *

Since leaving Mary to return to his own, cold bed, Matthew hadn't known what to do with himself. It had only been minutes but already he felt bereft, incomplete, almost half of himself without her there. None of this was right, and he didn't know what to do.

There was nothing he _could_ do.

Nothing sensible, anyway.

Standing restlessly by the little washbasin, he stared at himself in the mirror. How could he look at himself now, how could he be the same person? He'd done wrong – taken her as a lover, without shame, without fear of consequence, with such little thought given to her husband – but the guilt that churned within him was tempered, now, with a fierce determination that it was Mary's marriage, not their love, that was wrong. Mary was married… and the thought made him sick to his stomach… but it wasn't right, it wasn't what she wanted, it could hardly _count_!

He frowned, and shook his head, stern with himself and aching with disappointment. He knew that he was only trying to make excuses for his behaviour, but it wasn't an excuse and even if it were, there still wasn't anything he could _do_ about it.

Feeling torn in two by his conscience and desire, each force stirring in his belly with equal strength, he scrubbed a hand over his tired face. God, he was a mess. Only now did he notice the day-old clothes rumpled on his body, the shadowed stubble over his jaw, and he had nothing with him to rectify it. Of course he should go home, change, shave at the very least but the promise of seeing Mary again over breakfast was too strong. He couldn't leave, not now, not without a word to her.

The concierge who came up from reception when Matthew rang was quick and helpful, bringing him a shaving kit and brush for his clothes with which he did the best that he could. It wasn't much, but before long he at least looked something close to presentable.  
Aimless, and unable to bear staying in that empty little room for a moment longer, he tugged his jacket a little straighter, picked up his coat, and wandered down to the lobby. He wondered if Mary had slept again, or if she'd be up too by now, he might have a moment with her before Violet came down for breakfast – he told himself, firmly, to stop.

There was no sign of her yet, and he told himself that it was a good thing, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor as guests and staff began to rouse and hurry about their business. Just as he was about to sit down and ask for a drink to cradle while he waited, a sharp tap on his shoulder startled him.

"Matthew, my dear! Isn't it rather early to be loitering in a hotel at which one is not staying?"

"Oh – cousin Violet, how – lovely to see you," he smiled breathlessly, caught unawares. Seeing the indomitable Dowager made him feel suddenly small, as though his shame was written, indelible, across his face. She smiled at him, leaning on her stick and quite unfazed, and he swallowed. "I hope you're well, and enjoying your stay?"

"Very much so," she nodded. "But that doesn't answer my question, you know."

He felt his cheeks go red, tapping his fingers restlessly on his leg.

"No, well – the thing is, Mary and I got caught in that awful rainstorm in Manchester, and I couldn't possibly have let her make her way back here on her own in it. I… came back with her, just to make sure of her safe return, that's all."

"Oh, what a gentleman you are. And yet you didn't manage to make sure of your own safe return home?"

His throat went dry. "When - when I realised I'd missed the last train because of the storm I checked into my own room, here, and I assure you there was–"

"Well of course you did!" Violet chuckled, and when Matthew's fervent insistence trailed off, she looked into his wide eyes and quirked her eyebrow. "Why, what else do you imagine I'd think?"

"Nothing, I… nothing, of course." He licked his lips and shifted on his feet, desperately uncomfortable and not sure whether he was longing for Mary to appear or dreading it, suddenly. Violet couldn't know, could she? There was no way, they'd been… careful, hadn't they? Quiet? Well… no, perhaps not that, he thought, feeling his ears burn as he recalled the impassioned cries that had torn from their lips with such abandon… oh, God.

He took a deep breath, desperate to change the subject to anything else at all, but Violet anticipated him.

"Well then, Matthew, we hear so little of you at Downton besides what pieces your dear mother passes on. I suppose you're quite settled here, now?"

"Just about, yes," he smiled, easing into the more natural topic of conversation. "I'm kept busy but I don't mind that."

"No, I don't suppose you do. But are you kept busy enough? That is the question, I think."

Matthew frowned. "Busy enough… for what? I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

"Busy enough to distract you," she answered, looking him directly in the eye as she leaned upon her stick. "From the troubles that plagued you at Christmas. Have you run far enough, do you think?"

"I don't know what you mean, I'm sure," he swallowed uncomfortably. But Violet merely smiled.

"And I'm quite sure, my dear boy, that you know exactly what I mean. It's a shame you didn't take the chance when you had it, but I'm afraid to say it's rather too late now."  
He went pale, blustering an excuse that he already knew would convince neither of them, inwardly cursing the stout old woman's astute perception as he hoped it was not so strong as to notice… Mary was cooler than him, he knew, she always had been, and he could only pray that as Violet already suspected his own longing she would simply leave it at that, and not be alerted to Mary's.

"Cousin Violet, I–"

"Ah, Mary! There you are, at last…" Violet breezed over his shoulder, brushing past him to greet Mary while Matthew turned to stare, feeling his heart clench and his back tingle as she approached. She was beautiful, graceful as ever, unaffected to every appearance and… _not yours_, he sighed quietly, licking his lips as he tried not to think of how perfectly she'd lain in his arms, naked, unashamed, exquisite…

"Hello," he greeted her shyly, almost awkwardly as he stood just a little behind Violet.

"Good morning," she returned his smile with perfect serenity, and managed not to blush as she asked, "Did you manage to sleep well enough, after finding yourself stranded here?"

Her question demonstrated every proper concern, and he swallowed before answering.

"Yes, thank you, I… slept wonderfully. Very comfortably in fact, though, I woke far earlier than I'd have liked. But never mind, it seems we're all early risers after all."

Violet coughed politely. "As fascinating as I'm sure that is, Matthew, why don't we discuss it if we must over breakfast. I do intend to eat before going to church, and sadly the vicar's sermons won't wait."

"Why not," Mary smiled, and they meandered through to the hotel's restaurant.

She would not look at Matthew, and wished he would not keep stealing glances at her, glances that she could feel on the back of her neck. Oh, she wanted nothing more than to welcome him… his warm gaze, his tender hands, his whispered love against her skin… but, not now, not now! It was too difficult, and with every breath of him beside her she felt herself weaken, and she clung to every ounce of strength that she possessed.

It was much, much too difficult.

Coffee and toast were quickly served, busying them, distracting them enough to make decent conversation unnecessary for a thankful moment.

"Richard telephoned just now," Mary announced quietly, as she picked up a slice of toast to butter.

Matthew looked up sharply, but she would not quite meet his eyes. The chatter from tables around seemed to drown out and roar in her ears with the effort of it, of pretending that there was nothing wrong, that everything was normal.

"Well that's hardly surprising," Violet sniffed. "All of us have a hobby of some sort or other, and your husband's seems to be checking up on you."

"Honestly, Granny…"

"No, let's not pretend otherwise. Of course it might be just that he misses you too much, but Sir Richard doesn't strike me as a man of such great sentimentality."

Matthew cleared his throat and smiled politely, masking the searing ache in his chest.

"How is he, was everything alright?"

"Yes," Mary answered with a little sigh, "perfectly so. He wanted to know how I got on yesterday, and I told him that we'd had a marvellous time."

Matthew smiled down at his plate. Yes, they certainly had. But even such precious memories weren't enough to alleviate the crushing weight in his chest that reminded him that all of it was over now. She would be back to Downton, back to her husband, this very evening. And he would be back in his modest apartment, alone, incomplete, waiting once more for a single word from her to lighten his days with only the comfort of fast-fading memories to help him bear it.

He roused from his thoughts when Mary, fiddling anxiously with the handle of her coffee cup, spoke again. "He also mentioned that he's finished his work a little ahead of schedule, in London. And he thought he might get the morning train to be here this afternoon, to finish off the weekend."

She looked up and saw the apprehension in Matthew's eyes at the unpleasant and very real reminder of her marriage. He looked winded and, unable to bear his haunted expression, she turned to smile broadly at Violet. "Won't that be nice, Granny," she tried, but it was thin and unconvincing.

"Splendid!" Violet's smile was wry, and she turned her sharp eyes upon Matthew, who was putting far more effort than he ought into shelling the top of his eggs. "He'll be here in time for our afternoon tea, I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you as well, Matthew."

Matthew wasn't at all so sure, and felt sick at the very prospect. He'd never gotten on well with the man as it was, but now... After what he and Mary had done, how could they sit at the same table with her husband and pretend, how could he face him, even? More than that, Matthew began to worry that his response to Richard would not even be guilt so much as a kind of unrighteous anger, a bitter jealousy and rage that this was the man who Mary was bound to, who could rightfully take her home and to bed, and it wasn't _right_, he didn't deserve her! He pursed his lips, muttering a noncommittal response as he tried to calm the feeling of fierce injustice swelling in his chest. He had no right to feel such; though Mary may love him as passionately as he did her, he'd done as little to earn her love as Richard had to earn her hand. Less so, even... It was all a petty, poor attempt at justification, and it still could not make anything right.

As they continued their breakfast, Mary glanced at him in concern. The conversation had moved on quickly enough to other things, their plans for the day, chatting about the area and things at Downton more generally - careful to keep talk of its troubles at bay - but a pall hung over them now. Matthew looked unsettled enough at the mere notion of Richard coming (surely Granny had noticed, but at least that might be attributed to many things before the truth was suspected), and Mary hardly dared think of how bleak his mood would become to see Richard, and talk with him in the relative intimacy of afternoon tea together. And how could she sit between them both, her husband and her lover (only Matthew seemed more than that to her, so much more), and hold her composure? When Richard was sure to be his usual arrogant, conceited self, taking every opportunity to belittle Matthew as he always had...

It couldn't be done, and as they talked of this and that and sipped their hot coffee her mind was turning over every way she could think of to try and avoid it, somehow.

She feared she was running out of time as waiters came to clear their emptied plates, and Violet asked Matthew for the time.

"Just after nine o'clock," he smiled graciously, and Violet nodded.

"Then we really must be going. Will you join us for church, Matthew?"

His smile vanished, and he swallowed.

"I'm... afraid I'm not dressed for it, cousin Violet," he glanced down at his suit, still a little rumpled from the day before. "I must go home to change first, and by then I'll be lucky even to make it to my usual haunt, but thank you for asking."

"Hmm, I expect you're right. Well, never mind," she shrugged in understanding as Mary shot him a grateful glance across the table. She couldn't have borne that, to sit beside him in church after how they'd spent the night before... He gave her a small smile, eyes sparkling gently, and her cheeks infused with a delicate glow. Violet carried on, "Though you'll still join us for tea this afternoon - once you're more properly attired - won't you?"  
His lips pursed in thought, and Mary held her breath, terrified of either answer he might give and unable to tear her eyes from his face.

"Do you know - you'll have to forgive me, I think," he sighed at last, and seemed relieved to have said it. Mary felt herself breathe again, and understood, even as she felt the sadness creep over her that he was leaving, this was it, she wouldn't see him again, and it hurt almost more than she could bear.

"Oh?" Violet raised her eyebrow, demanding an explanation though she seemed entirely unsurprised by his answer. Matthew nodded sharply.

"Yes, I'm afraid there's some files I need to go through before work tomorrow that can't be put off any longer. I'd hoped to tackle them last night, or this morning, but after getting myself stuck here... I've rather lost the time. I am sorry, but - I'm so pleased to have seen you this morning, at least. It's been such a pleasure, and I'll be sad not to see you again before you go."

His smile this time was broad and genuine, for every word of his last sentiment had been the truth. For all his discomfort at times, he had missed Violet, and Mary... Oh, the thought of not seeing her again was already breaking him apart but it had to be this way... It had to.

"That's a shame, but it has been nice to see you," Violet graced him with a warm smile. "Hasn't it, Mary?"

"Of course, it has." Her eyes connected with his, and they said a thousand silent words in that look. It had been the nicest thing, the most wondrous, even if in the same way it had been the most painful. Each memory, each breath and touch and murmur, would be held, treasured and cherished, because their love was worth more than all their fear. Then... because she could feel her grandmother's eyes, because she knew it was expected, Mary couldn't hold his gaze as she added, "I'll pass your apologies to Richard, Matthew, but I'm sure he'll understand."

"Thank you," he answered softly, the warmth of his voice communicating thanks for a host of things that were not anything at all to do with her husband. She smiled.

Parting this time was harder than ever before. Through years of distance and hurt it had been bearable as they pretended to themselves that none of it mattered. At Christmas, at least, they had found a moment's privacy for one last kiss, a proper goodbye, a whispered promise of love. But now, with Violet's watchful eyes and memories of not just a fumbling, stolen hour of passion but an unhurried, blissful night spent in the other's arms, there was nothing they could do that was enough.

Matthew kissed Violet's papery, powdered cheek, and she patted his shoulder with fondness.

"Until the next time, dear boy," she smiled.

He blushed, and was glad of it when he turned to Mary as it only deepened. He felt utterly helpless. He tried to draw from her strength, and her own smile, as she slowly held out her hand.

"Goodbye," she said, and he took her slender hand in his.

"Goodbye, Mary."

He felt as though he were falling apart, something within him breaking and fading as his fingers squeezed hers. The touch went on a moment longer than it should've, they both knew, but still it took a herculean effort to end it. He trembled as their fingers slid apart, his hand falling limply back to his side.

With downcast eyes, he gave a tight smile and walked out of the hotel, not able to bring himself to look back even once to see her beautiful figure fading from his sight, and cursing himself for the cowardice that had led him to this, to having to leave her to the mercies of another man. Maybe if he'd been braver - if he could bear it - if, _if_! But he hadn't been, had he; and he'd lost her for it, again.

Rarely had he despised himself more.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N:_ Thanks so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed it! I am sorry that it ended on such a bleak note - a result of the chapter split, I'm afraid, but trust me that it works better this way... And that Things Will Start To Happen next chapter. :P _

_Thank you!_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _Hello! I did promise another chapter towards the end of the week, and it just wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is. Enormous thanks for all your kind reviews and comments - they fire me up a huge amount to write more. Thank you!_

_Masses of thanks to Pemonynen and EOlivet again, as always, because they're wonderful and listen to me wittering on, and polish things up._

_Enjoy...!_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

On Tuesday afternoon, Mary sat in the sitting room of Crawley House, cradling a cup of tea in her hands as she told Isobel the expected details of their trip.

"I'm sorry Richard spoilt the peace of it," Isobel smiled in sympathy. "Just at the end, as well!"

Mary looked down. "Oh, he was alright I suppose. I wish he hadn't, of course, but he was on his best behaviour at least."

In fact, she hadn't known what to make of Richard's behaviour since his arrival just after lunch on Sunday. If he'd been angry that she'd seen Matthew, if he suspected anything of them... he had not said a word. He'd been as charming, gracious and pleasant as she'd ever known him to be, with barely a hint of the chill that usually lay beneath every word that passed his lips. In fact, it was... almost like he'd been in the first few months when they'd met, before jealousy and power over her had begun to twist his spirit.

It troubled her, a great deal.

Perhaps he thought he could somehow earn her affection again, perhaps he thought he could make her forget. Perhaps he really didn't know, how she and Matthew had betrayed him - or perhaps he really did, and his graciousness was only a mask before he would turn, and... she shuddered, not knowing what to think.

"And... did you see Matthew, in the end?"

Isobel raised an eyebrow as Mary looked up sharply, distracted from her wandering thoughts. She hadn't mentioned that, yet.

Her lips trembled into a faint, nervous smile.

"Yes. Yes, he... showed me around Manchester, actually. Where you'd lived before coming here, the first law firm he worked at - things like that. We had a lovely time."

"I see. How nice!" Isobel was quiet, and thoughtful, as she watched the young woman in front of her who smiled bravely, though her eyes were glistening with sadness. "Was that... helpful, Mary? For either of you?"

Mary drew a shaky breath. "No... I don't think it was."

They looked at each other, and Mary's eyes squeezed closed as she tried to swallow back her brimming tears. Isobel took her hand, and waited patiently, pressing down her own feelings on the matter as they couldn't make any difference, now.

She didn't ask. She didn't need to, and even if she'd been able to tell of her own accord, Mary's sorrow and fear soon began to spill over anyway.

She listened as Mary told her of Matthew's relentless devotion to work and his loneliness, and how she knew he deserved more than all that... A real life, a love that he could have, without shame, and how she worried that he could never find it while he was trapped by clinging to the impossible dream of their love.

Mary spoke through stifled sobs of how, for a night that should never have happened, she'd been happier than she'd ever thought possible. But that the knowledge of such happiness, knowing that it was wrong and fleeting, out of reach, like blossom in the wind, only made it harder each moment to accept the reality of her life with Richard. A life that stretched out endlessly before her, without reprieve, broken only by sparks of brightness with Matthew, but... could she live her whole life, clinging to those? Would it be fair to make Matthew?

"Please don't say you told me so," she whispered tearfully, shaking her head. "We both knew it might make things harder but I thought it would hurt more to be so close and not see him at all and we didn't know..."

"Hush, my dear. It's alright," Isobel squeezed her hand gently, feeling her heart ache with anguish for them both. "I wish there was another way for you, but I think-"

"I know."

Mary's voice was shaky, but sharp. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from Isobel's and brought out an envelope from her purse. She wiped away her tears and sniffed. "Please send this to Matthew. And whatever he might write back, please keep it and don't say a word. I don't want it, I... can't."

Isobel took the envelope, and frowned.

"Are you absolutely sure? I have to say I think it's the right thing, but Mary, it will be very difficult."

There was a moment before she answered, before she shut each argument down firmly within her.

"Yes, it will be. But being without him is the hardest thing anyway, and I must go on - and so must he. There isn't any other way, is there?"

Her eyes held a pleading light, as if Isobel might have a solution, something that none of them had thought of yet, but... they both knew there was nothing.

At last, Isobel nodded, taking the letter and putting it to the side.

"I don't think there is, my dear. I'm so very sorry."

* * *

Soon afterwards, Mary left, before she could change her mind and tear the letter to pieces. She felt torn in two, for all she wanted was Matthew, his sweet words and his smile, but she couldn't - more than that, she _mustn't _- have him. It would be easier for them both this way, fairer anyway, to forget... She had to try and forget, though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

Unbidden, that cold December night sprang to her mind, when Richard had made her throw his photograph into the fire. Though he'd tried to convince her, so horribly, that Matthew didn't care - as much as that had hurt, had he maybe been right to do so?

No, she frowned, squinting against the bright sunshine through the car window that bore her back to Haxby. No, she wouldn't change the knowledge of Matthew's love, or the physical expression of it she'd experienced, for all the peace of mind in the world. It didn't matter how difficult it was now, to live without it.

Richard was there when she arrived home, and he kissed her on the cheek.

"How was Isobel?" he asked, and Mary smiled.

"She was alright, thank you. It was nice to see her."

"Good, then I'm pleased you've had a nice afternoon." He began to walk up the stairs, then turned to her, his hand resting on the cold, gleaming marble. "By the way, I bought you a little something - well, several little somethings - in London, and it all arrived today. Harris is taking care of it upstairs, but I thought you might consider something for tonight."

"What?" Mary couldn't explain why her heart sank with cold dread at the gift, whatever it was - she didn't want to owe him anything. "Richard, you shouldn't have-"

"And why not?" he countered, raising his eyebrow. "A husband is allowed to treat his wife to trinkets, if he so desires. Or have I got that wrong?"

"No, but... a wife may not desire trinkets, you know. There are better things to spend your money on, darling."

Richard shrugged. "In your opinion, perhaps. But it pleased me to buy them for you. And it's only common courtesy, my dear, to express some appreciation."

He disappeared up the stairs, and Mary felt her blood boil with indignation. Because it would _please him _indeed, without any thought for what she might want. How dare he try to buy her affection, as if he could! She followed him up with heavy steps, dreading to see what he'd bought and what she must endure. Matthew would never... or if he did, she'd... no, no, such thoughts were pointless.

"Here we are, Lady Mary - isn't it lovely!" Harris grinned, not managing to hide the blush that spread across her cheeks when she pulled the garment from its box a little while later, as Mary masked more successfully the look of horror that threatened her expression. "The latest from Paris, I think... Sir Richard is a good man, if you don't mind me saying!"

"If ordering expensive nightclothes from Paris makes him so, then... I suppose he must be," Mary sighed, picking up the dark blue gown she'd chosen for dinner that evening. It matched the glittering necklace he'd also bought, and she felt sick. Sick that because he was her husband, this was _alright_, that she could claim no decent excuse _not _to wear the scrap of black silk he clearly meant for her to wear later, because she was his wife and it was her duty to oblige him. More than that, she hated the fact that it was not wrong of him to want to, to want her... She could not fairly hate him for that.

She closed her eyes as her maid dressed her for dinner, and thought of Matthew. She had to be strong, that was all, however much it hurt. For both their sakes.

* * *

Several days later, Matthew sat at his desk, weighing two letters arrived that morning in his hands. One from his mother and, he hoped, bearing a note from Mary inside... and the other from Robert.

As promised, he'd written that very afternoon, at a loss after finding his way back home, bathing, shaving properly and changing his clothes. Everywhere in his modest rooms he saw Mary; there on the chair, standing beside the window by his desk, lying beneath him on his bed as they kissed, as his hands sought her skin... Part of him wondered if it had been a mistake, to surround himself so with the memory of her, but it was the sweetest torture.

And then he'd thought of Richard arriving that afternoon, greeting his wife with a kiss, oblivious to how her lips and hands had mapped his own body in ravenous delight for those hours together in secret. He'd thought of Richard taking her home that evening, perhaps to bed, with no idea of his wife's betrayal.

Then the familiar old guilt began to resurface, and Matthew grimaced, frustrated.

Hoping that productiveness would ease his torment, he'd taken up paper and pen to write to the Earl, to tell him that Downton was safe - or could be, in a matter of weeks, as soon as the legal side of matters was finalised.

If he'd hoped that the action would grant him some absolution, some assurance of his character for having done _the right thing_, for once... he'd been very, very wrong.

Now the Earl had written back, and Matthew could hardly bring himself to read the praise and gratitude he knew would lie within. He deserved no praise, no gratitude, he'd done nothing worthy of it. Nothing at all.

Putting the other letter aside, he took a deep breath and opened it, scanning the words with unfocused eyes. As he'd imagined, Robert's thanks flowed from the page, and despite Matthew's insistences to the contrary was determined that he should visit them for dinner soon, to arrange things properly and celebrate. But Matthew didn't want a fuss made, in fact he'd rather no-one knew the money was from him at all - Mary was the only other who knew, though he imagined by now that Robert would have shared the happy news with all the family. It was exactly what Matthew had dreaded.

Already wondering how he might politely refuse the invitation, he put Robert's letter to one side and picked up the next, a faint smile of anticipation already touching his lips. It had only been a week, but God, he missed her... He opened the envelope and tugged out the other within, along with his mother's letter which he scanned down first. Ah, then she knew he'd seen Mary... was glad they'd had a nice time but... oh, there was always that but, wasn't there? Reminding him to be sensible and think of his future... Matthew sighed heavily, and wondered just how much his mother knew or suspected - not that it mattered, he thought, it wouldn't change anything. Her letter bore no tone of judgement or disappointment at least, which Matthew would have expected if she knew truly what they'd done. His eyes roved over the last lines, a little news from Downton and how her work in York was going... but it hardly registered in his mind.

He set that aside as well, and slid his thumb under the seal of Mary's letter, letting his eyes linger for a moment on the elegant black swirl of his name in her handwriting. He folded the thick paper open almost reverently, and began to read.

_21st May 1920_

_My darling Matthew,_

_I hope you've been very well since I saw you. For you I suppose it will be almost a week, or more, since - but for me it's been barely two days, the memory is so fresh in my mind. I didn't have a chance to say to you, then, but thank you for leaving when you did. I couldn't have borne to see you there with Richard. Matthew, I shouldn't say such things so plainly, not even in a letter, but that day and night we had together were the happiest of my life. You make me feel whole, and treasured - someone who is worth something, truly, not just an ornament or a prize and I don't know how I've earned such love - but thank you. I will cherish the memory of that feeling, and of you, for every day of my life._

_I'm not going to write again, my darling, because we both have lives to live. Writing this is so hard, you must believe - but I meant what I said, at your home in Manchester. We can't go on, clinging to dreams in letters that must be kept secret. It isn't fair to. You deserve more than that, and I won't hold back your life any more. I won't let myself, so Matthew, please go out and live - I won't accept any argument. I've already asked your dear mother not even to tell me if you write back, so please don't waste your ink. _

_I love you, Matthew, God knows how much. But it hurts too much to love you and not be with you. At least I have a future here, and I won't stand in the way of yours any longer. Please try to understand - and if you hate me for this, perhaps that will only make things easier. Please go, and live, and be happy with somebody who can make you so. Knowing that you are would ease my mind so much._

_Look after yourself, until we see each other again - I'm sure we will, sometime, but I hope that when we do it will be easier for us both to bear. And thank you again, for how you've promised to help Papa. It will mean the world to him, and it does to me._

_I do love you, so terribly much. Goodbye, Matthew._

_Your Mary._

"No," he muttered through clenched teeth, the letter almost crumpling in his shaking hands before he realised, and smoothed it desperately out. "No, Mary, please..."

He read it again, though his vision blurred and his heart was pounding loudly in his ears. She couldn't do this. She couldn't turn away from him - from _them_ - she couldn't shut him out completely, after what they'd done - God, didn't she realise he didn't _want_ a life without her? It wouldn't be a life at all, it wouldn't be right... A feeling of blind panic surged within him at the loss of her, and even while part of him objectively realised that this was precisely what she'd meant, precisely _why _they must stop, he was terrified to accept it.

He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and began to write, without thinking, pleading with her to not give up. Somehow, he didn't know, never mind that it was impossible, _somehow_ they would work something out, and even if they didn't it was impossible for him to move on without her. He could never marry another, he could never give children to another, he didn't want to and it wouldn't be right so please, if she would just at least write... His tears fell and spattered on the black ink, bleeding into the paper. Now that he'd known it, even so briefly, he couldn't go on without her comfort.

He enclosed the letter with a note to his mother, asking her to give Mary his letter, no matter what she'd said, just give it to her and let her make her mind up... but somehow he knew that she wouldn't.

Days went by, and he threw himself into his work, because every spare minute left his mind open to thinking of Mary, and the agony of her goodbye was too much to bear. Her letter had fast become smudged and wrinkled, faded with the number of times he'd read it, to the point of falling asleep with it clutched to his chest.

On the fifth day, a note from his mother arrived.

_She won't, my darling boy, and I wouldn't try to make her. Thank God she at least has had the sense to accept that it must be the end of things between you. I know you are hurting, Matthew, and I wish I could ease your pain. But Mary is right, and the only way to do it is to try and move on. Please have the courtesy to do as she asks and desires of you, and try to do the same._

No.

He wrote again, to them both, he begged, he pleaded. Day after day he wrote, and each day with no word back his determination and desperation grew as he sifted through the facts in his mind.

He was in love with Mary. Hopelessly so, his body and spirit were bound to her and he needed her in his life - even in the smallest way, even to only have a few words from her now and again. He could never love another.

Mary was in love with him. He knew it, she had given herself to him and she loved him... She loved him, and had loved him, for longer than he had imagined.

They could not be together, because she was married to Richard. Richard, who had been brave enough to pursue her when Matthew himself had not, Richard who had blackmailed her with the threat of scandal if she would refuse.

Mary did not love her husband, in fact he made her skin crawl. And it was all wrong... Matthew knew, as surely as he knew his own name and his love for her, that it was not right that Mary was bound to a man she couldn't stand, bound to his home and his bed and his legacy... Oh, he knew that their betrayal of Richard wasn't right either, but their love was more right than her marriage.

It couldn't go on; that, he was sure of. However impossible it seemed, there had to be a way. And each morning, Matthew awoke with a keener determination to find it.

Almost two weeks went by since her letter had broken his heart, and there was a knock on Matthew's door. His foolish heart leapt for a moment, then sank again as he remembered his appointment with Reggie Swire's solicitor. Only an hour later the dry old man had left again, and Matthew sat slumped at his desk, a considerably wealthier man than he'd been when the solicitor had arrived.

Feeling wretched about the whole thing, Matthew's only thought was to get rid of the tainted money from his own hands as quickly as possible, and he took out a sheet of paper to write to Robert at once.

And then he stopped, and thought. Taking out the Earl's letter from a fortnight prior, Matthew read the invitation again. Perhaps... No, it was a stupid idea, and he dismissed it immediately.

But perhaps... if he could only see Mary again, if they could stand firm, together...

Standing up, he strode to the window, pushed it open and leaned out, taking a deep breath of air. Had he gone completely mad? Probably, yes. But whatever happened, if Mary loved him as much as she'd shown him and if she was finding this all as torturous as he was, then... consequences be damned, he was determined to try, with her blessing.

Before his nerve disappeared, he sat down again and wrote quickly to Robert, with a trembling hand. The Earl would be pleased to know the money was at last in hand, a considerable sum, and Matthew would be happy to come to Downton himself to arrange and sign over the transfer. Dinner would be lovely, thank you. Would the coming weekend suit?

Matthew signed and sealed the letter, before taking out another crisp sheet. For a few moments he stared at it, tapping the tip of the pen against his pursed lower lip.

Yes, his mind was made up - he had to fight for her. He couldn't go on any longer like this.

_4th June 1920_

_My darling Mary,_

_I don't suppose you'll have seen my other letters - Mother is too much a woman of her word to have shown them to you, and I respect that. But dear God, I hope she gives you this one. _

_Your father invited me to Downton, to sort things out __once the money from Reggie Swire has come through__. It was all finalised this afternoon, and I've accepted your father's offer. All being well, I'll be there on Friday evening._

_Mary, I can't do this any longer. I can't live with your silence, I can't go on without you by my side. And I think we should tell Carlisle. Please - don't tear this up as I know you'll want to after reading that - you must think I'm mad, and honestly I think I'm mad myself. But darling I've been a coward long enough, and I won't be any longer. _

_Can he really cling to you when he knows that we would love each other despite anything? Really, what satisfaction could he gain from a wife who thinks so little of him as I know you do? I'd give the world for you, Mary - I can't give the world, I know, but there must be something he wants - if he wants to ruin us, if he wants every penny I possess, if he wants Downton - I'd give it without a moment's hesitation, for the chance to be with you. Our lives are not right otherwise._

_I want to try, darling. I know we've worried what he would do, but if he won't divorce you at least we'll have tried, and if he dares to hurt you... My God, just let him try it. _

_I will be in Downton on Friday evening, and I want to see you, and I want us to stand up to him together. I love you too much to let you go, Mary, and I hope that you love me enough to try whatever it takes for us to be together. Because I can't bear the thought of you chained to him for one more day, not when we might have the chance - however small that chance is, I know that - to free you from him._

_I love you, and that's all I can think. Please, if you can, try to get to Mother's on Friday evening so we can talk. I won't give up, my darling. Not again._

_Matthew._

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thanks ever so much for reading! I'm curious to know what you think, about what has and might happen, so I'd love to hear from you. Until the next time, thank you again! :)_


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _Hello hello! Apologies for the delay in this chapter coming... School reports and assessments got in the way, and job applications, and massive amounts of not fun. Things are a bit tough at the moment. Thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and support and lovely reviews - thank you!_

_Massive thanks to Pemonynen and EOlivet for their help, as always :) :)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

What made this one different? Isobel read Matthew's latest letter again, the other envelope addressed to Mary in her hand, hovering above the open drawer where all the rest lay, unopened and unseen. She hadn't even told Mary when she'd received them, or how many - well, she had promised - as much as it pained her to do so, imagining her son's anguish as he wrote. But it was for the best, she was convinced of that.

This one, though... seemed different. Even though he was due to visit the very next day according to his letter (Isobel was a little worried about him doing so if she were honest, considering the mood he seemed to be harbouring), his insistence that Mary see this letter was unrelenting. Even more so than his others, even though he knew she likely hadn't passed the rest on... What could matter so much? Isobel hardly dared to think, but it worried her. She remembered how rash Matthew could sometimes be, when he was desperate enough.

Still, what could she do about it? Would it be fair to pass the buck to Mary, who was struggling anyway to get over him?

With a deep sigh, she put the letter in the drawer with the rest. She took it out again. She walked to where her purse lay on the cabinet and put it inside, reaching for the bell to tell Molesley she was going out... then stopped, and took it out once more. She tapped it upon her fingers. And then, shaking her head in disappointment, she sat down, opened it, and scanned her eyes quickly down the page, trying not to learn more than she should of their relationship.

Seconds later, the letter fell from her fingers in shock. He couldn't possibly be so stupid... No, in fact, she was rather afraid that he could.

* * *

On Friday afternoon, Isobel jumped at the knock on the door. She stood up, wringing her hands together, settling only a little as Molesley showed Mary into the sitting room.

"Hello, my dear," Isobel smiled, rushing forward to kiss her cheek in greeting. "Thank you for coming, I'm sorry it will be a little close to your dinner time."

"Don't be silly, Sir Richard will just have to wait," Mary assured her, before sitting lightly on the settee by Isobel's chair. "I can tell you I'd rather be here! So, thank you for asking me."

Isobel chuckled and sat down, smoothing her skirt reflexively over her knees. She asked Molesley to bring them some tea, and when he'd left the room, she reached behind her to the table and picked up the letter in its envelope, running her fingers back and forth over the paper. Finally, she held it out to Mary.

"Please, forgive me for putting you in this position - I hadn't wanted to, you must know that. I hope you'll forgive me for having read it first... and that you'lI understand that I thought very carefully before doing so. But I think you must read it, I'm sorry."

Mary stared at the envelope, her throat suddenly dry and constricted. She hadn't come to Isobel's for this, it wasn't fair! Anger fluttered briefly in her chest, before she saw the nervous contrition in the elder woman's face, and knew that this was not an action taken lightly. She swallowed.

"It's from Matthew, isn't it."

She'd known he would write, and of course, he had. Her heart tightened and ached.

"Yes."

"How... many letters?"

Isobel hesitated, but only for a moment as she saw the fire in Mary's eyes.

"This is the tenth." She pointed across the room to the sideboard. "The rest are in there, but I hadn't thought -"

"No, you've been right to not tell me. Thank you, Isobel."

She tried to smile, managed it briefly, and took the letter in trembling fingers. She took a shaky breath, touching the paper, his words, her name, remembering him... then folded it open to read.

Silence hung heavily as her eyes moved quickly back and forth, so thick she could almost hear her heart beat as it thudded in her chest. Her hand covered her mouth as she read it again, feeling panic rise within her. No, absolutely not, he couldn't. What on earth was he thinking! Her heart broke for his pain, she missed him so much she could hardly bear it, but... but... he couldn't possibly be serious. Only, she knew that he was. She thought of his other letters, how he must have begged her, his desperation to come to this, and she swallowed back the sob that rose in her throat.

Isobel touched her hand, bringing her back to life and the present.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but-"

"Please don't, I'm relieved to have seen it," she managed to say though her throat was choked with emotion, the fleeting desire to abandon everything to him, and fear.

Nodding, Isobel squeezed her hand.

"I thought it was the right thing to do. He'll be here, I'm not quite sure what time, if you'll stay - I think you should. You must work this out with him."

"I know." The prospect terrified her. In two weeks she had managed to resurrect those walls around her heart, shielding herself as she tried to rebuild and accept her life without him, as agonising as it had been to do so. And now he was coming back to tear them down, to expose her to the vulnerability of her love for him again, and... oh God, Papa's dinner tomorrow... Its purpose was suddenly clear, no doubt he'd planned to surprise the family with the good news of Matthew's assistance, which surely was the last thing Matthew would want! She closed her eyes and breathed, slowly.

The tea, when Molesley brought it, helped settle her only a little. They waited, on edge, for Matthew to arrive, talking of the most inconsequential things they could imagine as a poor distraction in the meantime.

* * *

At ten past five, they heard the door. Mary had been watching the clock on the mantelpiece anxiously, wondering when Richard would become angry that she wasn't there yet for dinner... Well, he would just have to wait for today.

Molesley opened the sitting room door, and addressed Isobel brightly.

"Mr Crawley's here from the station, Ma'am. I'll fetch some more tea for you all, shall I?"

"Oh! Good, but - no, there's an extra cup and saucer in the sideboard here, so we'll manage. Thank you."

The butler nodded, very good, and allowed Matthew to pass him into the room before closing the door behind him.

"Hello," he said quietly, brimming with nervous tension as he clutched his hat in his hands. Isobel stood up as he kissed her cheek, and then he turned and saw Mary, his face lighting up with a breathtaking, tender smile. "You came..." he said softly. "To be honest I wasn't completely sure you would."

She tucked a strand of hair nervously back up under her hat.

"Isobel asked me... I've just seen your letter a little while ago. But," she continued, seeing his crestfallen expression, "I think I would have anyway."

"Oh. Well... I'm glad," he murmured, and sat down.

Awkwardness settled in the room. They didn't know how to begin, what to say, barely even how they should feel. Isobel rubbed her hands over her knees, knowing this would be easier for them without her there but unsure if it would be wise to leave them. Mary was still, very still, as she stared at the floor, as Matthew in contrast fidgeted, his fingers pressing tightly where he held his hat. All he wanted was to kiss her, it was unbearable, and fresh conviction flooded his soul. They couldn't go on in denial, not for the rest of their lives - it simply wasn't possible. Mary fought the feeling, hardly daring to look at him for the surge of affection she knew would result after she had worked so hard to put it all aside. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair of him to sweep in and do this to her!

"Matthew, we can't," she burst out at last, cutting through the thick air between them.

As if he'd been waiting, anticipating this, Matthew's reply was strong and immediate.

"Why not?"

Their eyes locked and they stared at each other from their seats across the room, challenging, seeming almost out of breath.

"You know why not." Mary's voice was firm. "Who knows what Richard might do!"

"_Might _do, Mary!" he countered fiercely. "We've always thought of the worst, of what he might do in anger and jealousy but what if... What if he lets you go?"

"Don't be so naive!" her anguish channeled into a bitter laugh. "He's far too proud to let me go."

"But what if he's too proud to bear you to stay?" Matthew leaned forward earnestly, his eyes bright with passion. "Could his pride allow that, to live with a wife who would openly prefer to be with another man, really?"

"Openly?" she cried, her fingers tightening into small fists in agitation and fear. "Matthew, I'm not sure _I _could bear the shame of that-"

"Then you could leave, and his divorce claim would be abandonment as well as adultery and-"

"For heaven's sake, listen to yourself!" She glared at him as he sat back, the crush of disappointment lining his features. Mary's heart clenched in aching despair, her lips parting and closing as she didn't know what else to say. Fear was crippling her, gripping every vein, because she _wanted _to abandon everything to be with him, of course she did... but the unknown factor of her husband's reaction, and more practically how she would live after it, whatever happened, was terrifying to be faced with so suddenly.

Matthew's voice was quiet, weak... broken.

"Don't you..." He swallowed, shifting on his chair as his hand rubbed over his brow. "Don't you want to be with me? To try, at least?"

"Oh, Matthew..." she sighed, her eyes closing against the sting of bitter sadness that suffocated her. She shook her head. Hadn't they been over this, time and time again? How could he doubt her now, after all that they'd done together? "Don't say that. You know... You _know _that I do."

She heard his trembling breath, imagined the gleaming tears in his eyes as he felt her slipping away from him again, again, his hope and his dream crumbling. She looked at him, pleading, trying to make him see. "Darling, please can't you see that there is more to this than you and I? And not even just Richard, but our family, and where I would go... It couldn't be kept hushed up, it would be whispered about wherever we went. It's easy to believe these things are possible when you have nothing to lose, but-"

"You're wrong," he muttered sharply, pushing himself to his feet as he stalked to the window. He gripped the frame of it, the way his shoulders shook visible through his jacket. "You think I have nothing to lose, but you're wrong." His voice dropped to a low murmur as he turned, slightly towards her but unable to raise his eyes to hers and let her see his tears. "I have you to lose."

Her heart breaking, Mary stared down at her hands in her lap, her lips pressing into a thin, trembling line. If only she didn't care so much, what others might think! She envied Sybil suddenly, with her husband in Ireland and their baby on the way, without shame, only _happy_. Would it be worth it? To risk throwing away her life, the future and security and position she'd built, even if she hated her husband... to be with Matthew?

She looked at him, still standing rigidly by the window, her heart a pent-up storm of longing and fear. She remembered how happy she'd been, how happy they'd been, together... God, how they'd been together. She wanted to hold him and be held by him, to cry out her fears into his chest and have him calm them, make everything else go away, all of it, the mess she'd tangled herself in... and all at once, if seemed startlingly clear. _Yes_, it would be worth it, of course it would be worth it! She would be with Matthew, and suddenly she felt as sure as she knew he did that they should be together, and any cost would be worth it, to save her from the misery of her current existence and to be with him. But could they do it, could they really, possibly? Her throat was tight and dry, she didn't know how to even begin to express the tumult of thoughts within her.

Isobel's gentle voice broke into their silence.

"Matthew, I think... it's an awful lot to put on Mary, all at once. You need to think sensibly, my dear, and practically - instead of charging so rashly into something with such consequence."

He didn't reply.

"I need some time," Mary said, quietly. "I want to - I think we should try. But it needs more planning and thought than this."

Slowly, Matthew turned, with the faintest glint of hope in his desolate expression.

"I know it's frightening," he said, shaking his head. The ghost of a smile hovered at Mary's lips in response to him.

"Yes... Papa's dinner would be rather awkward tomorrow if you'd stormed down to tell Richard about us in the afternoon."

Matthew's eyes widened.

"You'll be there? I hadn't-"

"We hadn't known either, that you were coming. I think Papa wants to surprise us all with the good news."

"Oh God."

For the first time, Mary smiled, and held out her hand. Matthew only hesitated a moment before he came to her and took it, lowering his head to press a tender kiss to the backs of her fingers, before sitting down beside her. He kept her hand, stroking her palm unconsciously in a light caress, settled in his lap.

Staring at the tender motion, feeling calmed by it, Mary spoke quietly.

"I'll need some time to work out where to go, and what to do with my things. And to - safeguard, against however Richard will react."

"I'll be with you," Matthew said firmly. "Whenever it is, whatever happens, I'll be with you. And - God - anything must be better than this, Mary."

She chuckled almost sadly, and squeezed his hand.

"Maybe not _anything_," she said fondly, the light in her eyes teasing him a little. "But yes, I know what you mean."

Isobel watched the pair on the settee, their fingers entwined and blushing smiles, and felt a pang of affection for her son and his love in her heart. They were oblivious to her, completely - they always had been, to all others. And while she didn't approve of what they had done - she couldn't - she understood, now that she saw them together, that Matthew had been right. To try and live their lives apart, when they would inevitably be thrown together at family occasions and have to face this again, seemed an impossible feat when their love was too potent to hide. To suffer their lives apart, and miserable... No, it didn't seem right.

Even so... She cleared her throat sharply.

Their heads turned, startled as they had all but forgotten her presence. Mary's cheeks infused with a blush, and she glanced past Isobel to the clock.

"I'll have to go," she said, tugging her fingers from Matthew's and rising to her feet, smoothing her coat. "Richard will be waiting for dinner, and wondering where on earth I've been so late."

"You can tell him quite safely you've been here," Isobel smiled.

Matthew rose to his feet as well.

"Couldn't you... stay here, for dinner? If Mother's invited you..."

"Absolutely not," Mary put the thought out of his mind as quickly as it had arisen. "Not when tomorrow he'll find out that you're in Downton, too. He doesn't suspect, I think, not yet - but let's not give him more fuel to before we're ready."

"Alright." Matthew frowned down at his feet, hating the thought of Mary having to go back to her husband, to be alone in the possessive oppression of that house, when he wanted... No, it wasn't fair to be jealous, he had no claim over her either. Not properly, and he shouldn't... God, but he wanted... They had to wait, now, until it was right. Because it _would_ be, they would make it so, and he could control himself until then.

She touched his arm lightly, making him shiver and look up sharply.

"And darling, this means you must be on your best behaviour tomorrow evening... You know he'll try to rile you."

Isobel's eyebrows lifted in alarm as she heard Matthew sigh and promise he would be. Masking his feelings had never been her darling boy's strength; she'd always thought his openness a quality to be admired as a young man, but now... He would find it a sore trial, and she worried for him.

Catching Mary's eye, she patted her hair distractedly, then smiled and stood up.

"Let me see if Mrs Bird has anything for you to take back with you, Mary, as a little treat and a thank-you for coming. To appease Sir Richard, if it will," she smiled wryly. "I won't be a minute."

Standing together, Mary and Matthew watched her slip out of the room, silently acknowledging her kindness in giving them a precious minute alone.

Matthew turned to the woman he loved with a gentle, breathless smile as he took her hand, but she lifted a finger to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, and she felt faint from the soft pressure of his lips against her fingertip, but took a step resolutely back.

"There's something you should know," she said, "so it won't come as a surprise tomorrow."

"Oh?"

Her seriousness made his heart flutter quickly with concern, but she shook her head, smiling to reassure him. Lifting her hands, she slowly unpinned her cloche hat and lowered it, to reveal her hair cut close into a wavy, short bob pinned prettily back from her face.

Matthew stared, his lips parted, and she warmed under the weight of his gaze. It was a long time before he even tried to speak, and when he did only a dry gasp came out.

"I know you hoped I never would - or so you said," Mary offered softly. She touched his face, her fingers ghosting tenderly over his flushed cheek. "After Manchester I wanted a fresh start, a complete break to try and start again or forget or something, and... I don't know, it seemed-"

"God in heaven," Matthew croaked at last. His lips were dry and he tried to dampen them, still staring unashamedly at her, heat prickling at the back of his neck. "You're stunning, my darling... darling, Mary."

He licked his lips again and tried to swallow, shivering with desire and with a sense of injustice that her husband could not possibly appreciate her beauty as he did, it just wasn't possible. He lifted a hand to push back a few strands that had loosened and framed her face, his fingers trembling as they traced back down the skin of her neck.

"I was afraid you'd be horrified," she smiled affectionately, leaning in to his gentle touch.

"A little, but... you're far, far too beautiful for me to mind," he whispered in reply. Thank God she had shown him now... He dreaded to think of how obvious his reaction to her would've been, if he'd seen for the first time tomorrow, in front of her husband. Her husband, that now she had to go home to...

He breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself. But it was impossible, there was only Mary, only his darling Mary who could give him any peace... "Before you go," he murmured, his fingertips still hovering at her jaw. "Can I kiss you? Because I need to... very much."

It was the only way he would be able to face tomorrow's dinner, with Robert's unwarranted praise and Carlisle's odious arrogance and Mary so untouchable, so distant from him. She knew it too, how they would have to restrain all that they felt, but they had done it before and could do it again... with this to remember, for now.

She nodded, and tilted her face up to meet him, letting her eyelids fall closed as her hand stroked up his chest and to his face. She felt his lips press sweetly to hers, then part just enough for them to slip together and taste, so tenderly. She lingered there, against him, feeling him smile as his nose brushed affectionately past hers.

Heat had flared instantly between them but settled, simmered, as they drew back. Her thumb brushed over his lips, desperate for one last touch, relishing their softness and longing to feel them again against her skin, properly... One day, one day soon, they would somehow make this their reality, instead of a dream that they stole from time to time.

She left quickly after that, thanking Isobel who was waiting by the door for her kindness and understanding. Isobel only smiled, and hugged her, telling Mary of her sureness that they would find a way, if only they were patient.

But patience seemed hard to find, as they slept fitfully in cold beds so far apart and every nerve prickling with longing, anticipation and apprehension, worrying over and over about how they would bear the next evening. The test seemed insurmountable... and only the memory and promise of their kiss could give any respite to their fears, slight though the comfort was.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thank you for taking the time to read :) Coming up next chapter; dinner. Naturally, massive awkwardness and tension will ensue. It encourages me so much to hear what you think - I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you again!_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: _Hello, at long last! I can only apologise for the wait for this update - school, work, ugh, etc - all done now, and I'm back with lots of time (I hope) to write! Massive thanks to you all for your continued support in the meantime, and particularly to Pemonynen and EOlivet for their eagle eyes and input - and I very much hope you enjoy the chapter! :)_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Mary perched on the edge of the settee, nervously fingering her necklace as her husband stood beside her. Distracted, she listened to Edith tell their grandmother about the concert she'd attended with Sir Anthony the previous evening, but Mary's thoughts were far away as she continued to smile and chuckle and nod.

Richard was quiet and irritable, after she'd revealed as casually as she could manage that Matthew was expected at the abbey that evening.

"And how is it that you have the privilege of such information, when it seems that no-one else knows?" he'd questioned her in the car, with unnerving calmness.

"Isobel told me," Mary interrupted his accusation. "That's hardly unexpected, is it? Now please don't mention it; Papa hasn't said a word besides inviting us so he must mean it as a surprise."

"God knows why," Richard muttered, his cold gaze turned out of the window into the darkness. "The prodigal son returns, but there hardly seems the need to bring out the fatted calf."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"Who knows what it's about," she shrugged, doing her best to withhold the rising irritation from her tone. "I imagine it'll be clear soon enough."

Her intention had been to warn him, worrying that the surprise of Matthew's presence would anger him and make things worse. But now, as they sat together in the drawing room and his expression remained dark and difficult, Mary wondered if perhaps she'd made a mistake. Perhaps affording him the time to dwell on it, rekindling the spirit of animosity there'd always been between the two men, had been foolish...

There was no time left to wonder, as the door swung open and Carson announced that Mr Crawley and Mrs Crawley had just arrived.

In the immediate stream of pleasantly surprised gasps and handshakes and _how good to see you_, and _what a lovely surprise_, Mary gave herself a moment to breathe.

"I asked Matthew to visit," Robert beamed as he stood beside his heir. "And there's a very good reason for it, you'll all find out soon."

Matthew chuckled modestly. "It was very kind of you to ask," he said, and wished that they could just get all this over with.

He hadn't looked for Mary yet but he knew she was there, he could feel her in the room, the instinctive shiver across his skin. He didn't dare to look, yet.

"Whatever the reason," Cora's wide smile caught his attention once more, "it's always a pleasure to see you, when it's been so long."

"Not for all of us!"

In shock they turned, but Violet was smiling as she approached and held her hand out to Matthew. "It hasn't been so long, has it, since we saw you in Manchester. Has it, Mary?"

"No, I suppose not."

Was it only to him that her agreement sounded so intimate? As though she addressed only him, and excluded everyone else... Was it only wishful thinking? Matthew breathed in slowly and looked up, finally allowing himself to see her and desperately grateful that he could blame the warmth that sprang to his cheeks on the hot summer evening.

He watched her brush past her husband, who came to stand behind her, towards him, and he took her gloved fingers softly between his own, brushing together for only a moment as propriety allowed.

"Well it's still a pleasure," he managed to say at last, "always."

_Always a pleasure_, her eyes echoed back to him, the thought of _pleasure_ spinning in his mind and making him dizzy, and he forced his eyes up over her shoulder. "And to see you, as well, Sir Richard. I hope you've been keeping well?"

"Very well, thank you."

They shook hands, and Matthew felt the warning there, Richard's gentle reminder of his perceived superiority. That he was Mary's husband, the one who was able to give her everything materially and socially - if only that was what she wanted. Matthew almost felt sorry for him, and might have done if he wasn't so uncomfortably aware of how Richard had taken advantage of the woman he loved, stolen her... He swallowed down the now-familiar anger, reminding himself that they would have their time. They would.

His gaze shifted back to Mary. After this, he would leave her for the evening, or try to, he must...

"You've cut your hair," he observed softly. Thank goodness he had seen it first the day before; she looked breathtaking, her dark bob curled gently to her jaw, pinned back by a jewelled clip that mirrored the beading on her shimmering gown.

"And?" She raised her eyebrow, teasing him and feeling her heart beat wildly at his attention. This could not go on for long.

"It suits you terribly well."

"Yes I think so," Richard commented abruptly, his smile not reaching his eyes. His hand curled around Mary's waist, the simple gesture sending a ripple of tension through Matthew.

He smiled tightly, and nodded, relief sweeping over him as Robert drew him away. As they talked, he sometimes glanced over to Mary - unable to resist the allure of her grace, her voice - but she was always looking away, engaged with another, her husband close by her side.

He had to remind himself that, for this evening at least, that was _good_.

"I still don't know how to thank you," Robert shook his head with a smile, out of earshot from the others.

Matthew laughed gently. "I wish you wouldn't at all, there's no need. I'd far rather it come to you than to keep any for myself, believe me. It's all been settled into my account, now - so we can sort out the transfer on Monday, if you like."

"Yes... Listen, I don't feel right just taking your fortune, like this-"

"It's really more of an investment, sir, if you think about it."

"Then - _invest _in it, Matthew!" The earl clasped his arm briefly, speaking quicker now with conviction. "Move back to Downton, and have a hand in it - as you ought to, not just because it will be your money driving the estate! I would welcome your input, and remember it is your future we'll be building. Together, if you'll come."

"Oh... I couldn't, I'm sorry," Matthew stammered uncomfortably. Taking a breath to steady himself, he glanced at Mary again. He couldn't bear it, being so close to her, not until they were able to be together... As much as he longed to, it went against everything they were determined to uphold. For now, at least. "I've... built a life in Manchester again, I can't abandon my commitments there. Not just now."

Robert looked at him gravely, his disappointment evident. His words, when they came, were serious.

"You built a life here, too."

"I know-"

"-and you have family, here, who love you and miss you dearly."

"I know." He stared into the glass in his hands. He knew who loved him. Mary loved him. Mary... He sighed.

"Say you'll think about it, at least."

Robert's sincerity was impossible to brush aside, and Matthew looked up at last, with a small nod.

"I promise, I will."

"Now what are you two talking about so seriously?" Cora came brightly between them. "It's time to go eat - come on, we'll go through."

And so they did, filtering through the hall to the dining room. Matthew walked beside Edith, asked after Sybil, commented on the pleasant weather and... watched Mary, walking just in front of them with Richard, whose hand lay possessively on her back.

He couldn't stand it.

* * *

The dining room felt stifling, the food thick and tasteless, as Matthew waited and wished that Robert would stop playing his game of surprise with the family. At least then it would be out in the open, the air a little cleared, perhaps. He gritted his teeth through Carlisle's usual boasting of how well his city assets were doing, and how pleased their cook was with the latest kitchen range just fitted at Haxby, and how the guest bedroom improvements they had planned would raise the house's value very well indeed...

"Why does the value of it matter so much, as long as you're happy with it?" Edith wondered with a little frown.

"Don't be so naive, Edith." Mary glanced at her sister, not unkindly. It was only her natural aggravation at Richard that caused her to snap, and her smile softened her words. "To Richard, the value of everything matters."

The man himself was unapologetic.

"Well of course. If I wanted to sell the place, these little touches matter a great deal."

"_If _being the important word, darling. I don't think it's likely." Mary's voice was ice, and Matthew dared to chance a look at her, his indignation rising on her behalf as he saw her distaste. However many times she'd expressed her dislike of the cold, old house, its closeness to Downton would always serve in its favour. Never mind that, it was not Richard's decision to make, and her outrage was restrained to all but the keenest eye.

"We'll see," was all he would reply.

Silence settled around the table, tangible discomfort pricking everyone's skin.

"I can't imagine why you'd want to sell Haxby anyway," Cora laughed in a halfhearted attempt to break the tension. Richard only shrugged.

"One day it might be advantageous to do so. Such things do happen, don't you agree, Lord Grantham?"

Matthew bristled, furious at the man's callousness and even more so when he saw how it affected Mary, suddenly pale with anger. His mother caught his eye across the table and he gave a slight nod, _not now, don't interfere, don't cause a fuss_, _yes alright Mother_, but before he'd even have had the chance to address Richard anyway, the Earl smiled broadly.

"You're quite right of course, Richard, and I'm sad to say that sometimes it's not only advantageous, but necessary." A subdued murmur of agreement rippled around the table, but Robert's voice stayed strong and his expression bright and hopeful. "In fact, you all know that we'd come to a point where it seemed the only option for our beloved Downton-"

"Do you mean there's another?" Cora brightened, voicing the thought that they all barely dared to hope. Matthew shifted restlessly in anticipation of their joy, and caught Mary's tiny smile in his direction.

"There is, my dear - everyone - yes, there is," Robert's hand slammed enthusiastically down on the table in his happiness, causing Carson to flinch in the background. "I must ask you to forgive me for the surprise, I'd wanted us all together to share the news. But I'll let Matthew explain."

"Well there's... not an awful lot to explain, really."

"Pardon me, but it sounds like there is!"

Violet's tone was hard to argue with, and Matthew nodded, licking his lips and feeling desperately uncomfortable under the table's scrutiny.

"Well - to put it simply, I was fortunate enough to recently inherit a very unexpected sum of money. I didn't want any of it myself, and being aware of Downton's difficult situation... I wanted to help, if I could. That's all."

"And it's enough? So we can stay here after all?"

"Edith!" Cora frowned at her daughter, before turning her brilliant smile back to Matthew, and clasping his hand, forgetting propriety. "Matthew - is it really true, are you quite sure? How can we possibly thank you!"

"Yes it's all settled - or it will be, on Monday, when Robert and I see Murray. And there's really no need to thank me-"

"Believe me, I've already tried," Robert laughed.

Matthew blushed and tried his best to carry on with his dinner, modestly acknowledging Violet's murmured "Very well done, dear boy."

It was Mary's thanks, though, that made him glow, that convinced him this was worth it, that strengthened him. He'd done this for her sake, it was what she most desperately wanted for her family, and by grace he'd been able to help and salvage the money he didn't deserve from his guilty hands.

No-one had noticed yet how Richard's smile seemed forced, next to everyone else's, but his dry voice soon gave him away.

"It's a noble gesture, I'm sure. If Matthew wants to just give his money away, then of course that's up to him."

"Excuse me?" Matthew struggled to stay calm when every instinct bristled against Mary's husband, her expression next to his pinched and tight with frustration. Of course he couldn't just be gracious like everyone else, of course he had to ruin things... "I'd never _wanted _a profit from it, even a penny-"

"Why?" Violet asked Richard, her eyebrow raised defiantly. "What would you have done, given the option?"

"Bought it, of course!" His smile was smug, reeking of self-satisfied confidence, no matter what anyone else might think. "In fact I'd hoped, given another week or so, things would be in place to make enough profit on a sale of Haxby to offer. Then Mary would have her home, as she should, and nothing else need have changed." He sat back, as if the solution was obvious, and wasn't it a shame they'd been too hasty and missed it, costing Mary her rightful inheritance. If Matthew hadn't wanted it anyway, as he'd always claimed...

No-one quite knew what to say in the face of his boldness, nothing polite at least, until Mary's tone cut the fragile air like a knife.

"Darling, there's something you haven't considered. That I might be perfectly happy at Haxby." There was so much more she wished to say, so much bitterness she could pour on him, such disgust as would beat him low to the ground with the full support of her family and her lover. But one did not do such things in polite company, and she knew they must bide their time, that soon they would take from him everything he thought he'd won, with relish. Peace was more important for tonight, and so she bit her tongue, drawing strength from Matthew's warm, supportive gaze across the table.

"And are you?"

Richard's response was immediate, almost pitiable for the note of surprise it contained, however he tried to hide it in his challenge. And Mary found there was nothing she could say, not honestly, not when asked so directly. Of course she wasn't _happy_, she wasn't even close to _happy_... and her husband knew that, he just hadn't the slightest idea of how to make her so. Everything he tried, she would not reason to, and there was no cause for it when he could offer her everything. Whenever he thought to question why, with any seriousness, his frustration quickly mounted.

It was Isobel who spared her having to lie.

"I always think a wife needs a household of her own to be mistress of. It seems to me that Mary does such a good job of it at Haxby - don't you agree, Sir Richard? - it would be an awful shame to lose that occupation if you were to move back here under Lord and Lady Grantham."

"Quite right," Mary agreed with relief, the argument a perfectly natural response. "To come back here wouldn't be fair, to Mama or myself. So you see, darling, however thoughtful your offer, I think we must be grateful of Matthew's generosity after all."

"We certainly are," Cora beamed, resuming her own role as hostess when Richard grudgingly conceded, seething beneath the surface with bitterness and rage at the upstart young lawyer who could do no wrong in the eyes of his family. He found it sickening, that once more Matthew had been handed a fortune on a plate, without moving a muscle to earn it on merit, and yet still reaped praise without measure. Well, not so from him.

When the ladies went through to the drawing room some time later, the atmosphere between the men left in the dining room turned chill, less comfortable without their distraction, for Matthew and Sir Richard at least. The Earl noticed nothing amiss, being too pleased with the evening and too busy settling the three of them with cigars and brandy.

"I do wish you'd consider my offer," he said to Matthew again, hoping that now in a quieter setting and with everything out in the open, his heir might change his mind.

"I'll certainly consider it; I promised I would," Matthew said kindly, knowing that Robert meant well. "I simply don't think it would be the best thing for me, just now. In time, perhaps - but not quite yet." In fact, he wasn't quite sure if a time would ever come. In his mind he'd imagined when things were settled with Mary, but... how would her family, her father, react after all? Would he still be welcomed back when their affair (he couldn't pretend it was anything less, now) was out in the open - would her family be pleased that Mary was happy, at last, or would the shock and shame of it take precedence? Perhaps they would live together in Manchester for some time, when they were finally able to marry... Provided of course that they _were_ able to marry, if Richard agreed to divorce her...

Matthew felt cold and sick, not at all sure of anything, the path to his life with Mary suddenly seeming impossibly strewn with thorns and impassable obstacles. Of course Mary had considered all this, of course she'd been horrified by his mad scheme... He took a large gulp of brandy and stared at the smoke curling from his cigar, spiralling up and fading away, like his ridiculous dreams.

"What offer was this?" Richard asked, not caring whether or not it was polite to do so. Robert smiled ruefully.

"Not so much an offer, as more a reminder that Matthew would always be very welcome to move back to Downton. It only seems wise to me, with his fortune invested so heavily in it."

"I see. Well, city life does have its draws and its distractions... doesn't it, Matthew?"

"Certainly it does."

"But where there's a fortune concerned... You have been lucky in that area, it seems."

"Extremely," Matthew smiled tightly, taking another sip of brandy. "I know I've done nothing to earn it, in fact I wish it hadn't come to me at all - but it did, even if I wasn't Mr Swire's first choice of heir. If Downton hadn't been able to use it, I'd have given it to some charity or other - I'm just pleased it can be useful, it's what Reggie would have wanted, I think - and Lavinia."

Robert nodded gratefully. "He knew you were a good man, Matthew."

Matthew shook his head, withdrawing into himself, which the Earl took as simply a sign of his natural modesty. He couldn't know the bitter shame that coursed through Matthew's veins, knowing how untrue it was, how Reggie hadn't known him at all if he thought him to be so good. He'd betrayed Lavinia, broken her heart, abandoned Mary, taken impossible liberties with her in secret and now was threatening to turn her life upside down again.

No, he hadn't earned a single thing by his own goodness.

Beside him, Richard's fingers tightened, trembling, on his cigar. Reggie Swire... the man he'd saved from bankruptcy, so long ago he'd almost forgotten... had left it all to Matthew, who'd swept in smashing the plans he'd so carefully been laying, to save Downton. He didn't know whether he found it more frustrating or perversely amusing. Now, at least, he could only hope for the satisfaction of seeing Matthew's money go down the drain over time. He hadn't earned a penny of it, after all. And if he'd be staying in Manchester, not here and interfering, then so much the better.

"Well I'm pleased Downton is safe, one way or the other," Richard sniffed, picking at a napkin left on the table.

It was something they all could agree on, at least.

Robert raised his glass. "And let's drink to it staying safe, for very many years to come."

They did so heartily, each wondering what the future would hold, each forming and changing and reevaluating plans with every new thought and revelation.

Richard set his glass down and tapped it.

"If you'd ever like future investment advice, Lord Grantham, please don't hesitate to ask. I haven't built my business and income on fool's gold, you know."

It was a genuine offer, and meant well, though the reminder of Robert's past failures couldn't help but sting a little. His lips parted to respond, when he heard Carson clear his throat behind him. He turned.

"Beg pardon, my Lord... There's a telephone call for you, unless you'd like me to tell them-"

"What? No, no, it's alright. If you'll both excuse me," he said to Matthew and Richard, who both nodded as he stood up. "Don't wait for me, go through when you're ready. And thank you, Richard - I'll bear it in mind."

"Good."

The door closed softly behind the Earl, leaving the two men in terse silence. Matthew stared across the table at the remnants of dinner, cloying food mixing with the scent of their cigars, and he took a long, comforting smoke. He felt his muscles tighten instinctively, as if awaiting Carlisle's next barb.

It wasn't long in coming, and masked under his usual show of politeness and charm. Richard stretched his neck, looking around the richly furnished dining room.

"I would have liked to buy it for Mary, you know," he said. "She does love the place."

"Yes, she does."

"Though I suppose doing so would have put you out, in the long run... without it to inherit."

Matthew laughed sharply. "I couldn't care less about that."

"Then it seems almost a shame - still, what's done is done. And Mary will be delighted that it isn't lost completely."

Matthew's fingers tapped restlessly against his glass, finding it difficult beyond measure to listen to Richard talking about Mary at all, never mind with such odious and unearned authority.

"Do you really think it would have made her happy?" he asked sharply, before he could consider the sense of it. "To buy it for her like a trinket, putting her father under your debt?"

"You needn't put it in such mercenary terms, but yes. I believe I know what pleases my wife," Richard's eyes narrowed, the warning there clear.

"If you-" Matthew started to say, then pressed his lips tightly shut, reigning in his indignation. Richard's stillness and calm demeanour only made Matthew's agitation sharper. His lip curled scornfully. "Everything is buying and selling, to you, isn't it? That's all that matters, what you own."

The other man laughed, raising his eyebrow in amusement.

"I've never pretended otherwise, and been pretty successful about it, wouldn't you say? I have a thriving business with newspapers across the country, a very well-fitted house, a beautiful wife..." The smooth, possessive way he talked about _owning_ Mary made Matthew sick, and he felt his cigar crumble between his fingers. Richard carried brashly on, as if revelling in Matthew's discomfort. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yes. She is," he choked out. _And you don't deserve her. _

"And of course, you know of her little secret... I'm sure some would have called me foolish, to marry her with such a past, to take her into my house and my bed after that. But I think I'm very lucky - you see, fortune strikes us all in different ways - and my darling Mary is quite the prize to have won."

There was no affection in his voice, no true fondness or love. Just pride, and possession. His eyes glinted, cold and sharp in the guttering light from the candles on the table, as he observed Matthew rigid with tension, his jaw set, almost trembling. Fortune had not favoured the young man this time, Richard thought with satisfaction. Whatever Matthew's feelings, whatever his wife's, _he had won_. And if he wanted to take a little pleasure in reminding them of that fact... so be it.

Matthew's chair shunted noisily back on the floor as he stood up, the brandy left in his glass swilling up the sides as he set it forcefully down.

"Excuse me," he muttered, not trusting himself to give any reasonable reply. What Carlisle had said _deserved _no reasonable reply, and Matthew couldn't stomach another moment of this conversation. He had to get back to safety, company, _Mary_...

Even as his hand reached the handle of the door, Richard had caught up to him, stalking out into the hall after him.

"What's the matter?" he sneered, catching Matthew's arm, feeling powerful as he taunted the younger man's painfully obvious emotions. He never had been able to conceal them well. "I hope you're not jealous-"

"Of you? God, no," Matthew spat, wrenching his arm free.

"You had your chance, Matthew," Richard called after him. "You weren't brave enough to take it, or her, and now she's mine. She chose me. If you can't accept that, perhaps you're better off in Manchester and out of our way."

"You gave her no choice," Matthew span back round, hot with anger.

"More choice than you did." Richard remained maddeningly calm, and shook his head. "Such petty jealousy doesn't suit you, I'm afraid."

"I told you, I'm not-"

"Jealous? Of me, no I don't suppose you are. But of what I have - don't let's pretend, Matthew, you're not very good at it - even Lavinia recognised that."

"Don't you dare."

"What, admit the truth? That you'd rather have been with my fiancée than your own? I'm sorry how things turned out for you, Matthew, truly I am. I'd hoped that knowing the truth about her would help you get past your infatuation... but it seems not, and I'm afraid you must face facts - that Mary _is _my wife, that I know her in ways that you can't imagine. And that is the end of it."

"You don't know her at all," Matthew stared him down, heat colouring his cheeks, feeling his hands clench tersely into fists. How had Mary borne this, day in, day out? The thought of her living with Carlisle, being his wife, sharing a bed... when he spoke of her like this, tried to buy her happiness with baubles, made Matthew livid.

Richard laughed mockingly. "I certainly do, intimately. Or do you imagine you know more of my wife than I do?"

"I don't need to imagine it, I'm-"

The words had snapped out of Matthew before he realised what he was saying to restrain them, and rang into the echoing silence of the hall, their passion implying far more than he'd meant to reveal. The colour in his cheeks faded and paled, as he stood firm, facing Carlisle... whose eyes had widened a fraction then narrowed, drawing close enough that Matthew could smell the alchohol and cigar smoke on his breath.

"What do you mean?" he hissed quietly.

Matthew swallowed.

"Nothing," he muttered, stammering as he struggled to draw breath, to lie. "Just that I've known Mary a long time... and..."

"Don't take me for a fool, Crawley." A threatening edge crept into his voice as pieces and facts and impressions began to slot together like a puzzle in his mind. At times he'd had his suspicions, when Mary had been in Manchester with the old Dowager... but truthfully he hadn't believed that they'd actually be stupid enough to... Matthew was a poor liar when directly challenged - far too _good _to have ever needed the practise, Richard supposed - and with the slightest push, would give himself away, it seemed. Suspicion and outrage flared up, but he held it all back enough that only the slight shaking of his voice betrayed him. "What have you done with my wife?"

Matthew couldn't answer him. But his silence was answer enough. Richard recoiled, wounded pride smothering any rational thought beyond revenge, shaming and exposing them. "Well," he took control of himself, with a long, slow breath. "If you can't tell me, I'll just have to see if Mary can shed light on the matter."

He turned sharply away and walked towards the drawing room with quick, angry steps, as Matthew's heart began to race in panic.

"Is everything alright out here?" Robert emerged from the entrance lobby where the telephone had kept him, having ended the call when he'd heard raised voices. But all he saw was Richard striding towards the drawing room, fierce determination visible in every feature, as Matthew hurried after him with an outstretched arm and a desperate,

"_Wait-_"

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _Thank you so much for reading - as ever, I'd love to hear what you think! Thank you! :)_


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: _Happy Friday to you all! My dearest thanks for all your reviews and comments, I'm thrilled you're enjoying the ride, and to hear your thoughts means the world to me! Now, this chapter..._

_Essentially, long before this fic was a fic, it was an idle imagining in my head, playing around with a "what-if" following OCITE. Because it was solely in my head, and never intended to be written, I just had fun with the scenario. And it was **this**** scene.**So when I was eventually cajoled into writing and expanding this into a fic, please just be aware that this scene is what started it all off, and so I had to write it just as I'd imagined it._

_That being said, I dearly hope you enjoy it too! It also meant I found it very tough to write, so I'm incredibly grateful to all those who've prodded and cajoled and encouraged me to get it out, and helped me to make it much, much better._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

For Mary, talking idly in the drawing room with the other women, the wait was interminable. Outwardly she was calm, besides the fingers of one hand twisting her pendant around and around, but her nerves were racing. Every now and then Isobel would spare her a glance and a gentle smile, a small nod, lending her wordless support and Mary was grateful for it.

She resisted the urge to fidget, not wanting to draw the attention of her grandmother. Thank God her father was in there with them. The thought of Matthew and Richard left alone together over brandy didn't bear thinking about. Even before the ladies had retired, she'd recognised the frustration in Matthew's eyes, his restlessness, his uneasy posture. And of course Richard must be furious beneath the surface, she knew his attitude to these things too well and... She shook herself, took a deep breath and forced herself to smile at her mothers indignation that Robert had kept it all a secret until this evening.

Still, she thought, they'd be through soon and then she could steer Richard home, back to safety, she couldn't imagine him having any desire to stay longer than necessary anyway.

And then the door burst open, slamming back against the wall.

She became very cold, all at once, as faces snapped around in shock.

"Mary!" Richard was shouting as he strode across the room, his gaze blazing with cold anger, Matthew hot on his heels.

"Don't, for God's sake not here, damn it-"

Mary rose instinctively to her feet, and they stopped, both men raging with adrenaline. Her eyes flicked quickly to Matthew and he shook his head, a desperate plea for forgiveness in his expression that she couldn't process now.

Her gaze shifted to Richard. "What?" she asked calmly, her hands clasped tightly together. _Not now, not here, not like this... _What had happened to bring it out, she didn't dare to think, but trusted that Matthew wouldn't have given them away so lightly without Richard relentlessly goading him into a reaction. Her anger burnt hot at her husband and she tilted her head a little, almost a shrug, refusing to play whatever game Richard wanted to make out of this.

But he was having none of it.

"Don't play with me, you know damned well _what_!" His finger jabbed accusingly towards her. Matthew shifted instantly, lips parted to intervene but one look from Mary silenced him and he forced them closed, trembling with restraint. He felt his mother's wary eyes bore into him, imagined the shocked faces of Mary's family, but his own gaze was fixed solely on her... and Carlisle, between them, ready in case he made the slightest move toward her.

Mary raised an eyebrow, barely conscious of how she was able to move or speak, everything seeming to happen automatically.

"Whatever it is that you mean," her voice stayed quiet and low, "I don't think that here and now like this is the best way to discuss it."

"Is something the matter?" Robert caught up to them at last, looking in confusion at each face around the room. "I heard shouting."

"Sir Richard doesn't seem happy about something," Violet informed her son, sounding more intrigued than shocked. No one else knew quite what to say, rendered speechless by the sudden outburst and not wanting to make things worse, unable to imagine, bar Isobel, what might have caused it. "We're waiting to hear what it is."

"I'm sorry but you won't," Mary said determinedly. "I think Richard and I had better leave and speak more-"

His fingers closed tightly around her arm. "I'm damned if you think we're leaving before everyone here knows what you've done." The cold threat whipped through the air like a physical blow, knocking all the air out of her. She couldn't breathe, could only stare, his face just inches from hers, watching in horror as it all played out before her eyes and she was powerless to stop it.

Instantly Matthew was there, propriety forgotten as his hand landed roughly on Carlisle's shoulder, tearing him away from Mary as he placed himself between them.

"Don't touch her."

"I'll do as I like with my wife," Richard riled against him furiously, shaking him off, "a fact you'd do damned well to remember."

"Stop all this, at once!" The Earl strode up to Richard, taking in his aggressive stance and not appreciating in the slightest such a display in front of his family, certainly not directed at his daughter. He was shocked, too, by the uncharacteristic anger radiating from Matthew, but he was more inclined to trust that than anything from Sir Richard's mouth. "What on earth are you suggesting?" he said angrily.

Matthew's gut clenched, cold sweat beading his neck and forehead when Carlisle only smiled and laughed a sharp, bitter laugh, looking between Matthew and Mary with no shame in his vengeful eyes.

"What am I suggesting? Well, let me see if I've got things right. Would you like to tell him, my dear, or perhaps the hero of the hour, Mr. Crawley would prefer to. Would you like to do the honour, or shall I?"

"Don't-" Matthew muttered through clenched teeth, as Mary again found her voice to implore him, "Not here, Richard."

"Tell me what?" Robert demanded, losing patience.

It was stalemate, surely. _He wouldn't. He wouldn't dare. He couldn't. _Perhaps if they clung to the thought fervently enough it would be true, their own lips seeming fused shut as brains desperately wracked for something, anything, to say instead of the truth that would condemn them. God, how could this be happening, it wasn't supposed to happen like this!

Richard turned to face the Earl, and it seemed to happen in slow motion, inexorable and impossible to stop, as his lip curled into a bitter sneer.

"I am sorry, Lord Grantham..." his voice dripped with chilling insincerity, "but I do think you deserve to know, as I've just discovered myself, that the heir who we all thought so honourable has unlawfully bedded your daughter."

Matthew's stomach lurched as though he'd been dealt a blow and he saw Mary's expression shut down like ice, the Earl's face a mask of rage, heard Cora's strangled gasp of disbelief. Though it had been inevitable from the moment they'd stormed into the drawing room, to hear the words flung so casually into the open was unthinkable, sickening.

"How _dare_ you make such an accusation!" Robert cried out in fury, his face reddening, unable to believe the words he'd just heard thrown out so plainly in front of his family, _about _his family! His mouth opened to launch into another tirade but Richard calmly held his hand up, his voice low and cold.

"Please, Lord Grantham, before you say anything else. Let either of them deny it."

The silence was deafening, roaring in their ears, shattering the stillness around them as it remained unbroken. Matthew swallowed, his heart pounding loud and erratic as he faced Carlisle who remained unbowed, focused on Mary beside him, unable to face the expressions of shock and disappointment they knew must grace each face of their family.

"You bastard," Matthew finally exhaled, his voice shaking with anger. Then he felt Mary's fingers, brushing against his own, supporting him - there was no point, after all, how could they turn back from this? It was incredible, now it came to it, how calm she felt. The storm crashing around them somehow couldn't unsettle the strange peace of how sure she was, that she loved Matthew, and now she didn't need to hide it. Matthew took strength from her touch, focused on her, blocking out everything else in the room. "We won't deny it," he said very quietly. "But it wasn't... I mean, we..."

"Matthew, stop," Mary quieted him softly, her fingers lifting to touch his arm. She knew there was little reason to try to justify their affair and she imagined the attempt would only make things worse. "There's no point in that now."

Enraged by their stand together, Richard laughed harshly, his eyes glittering like a madman with jealousy.

"How stupid of me. I should have suspected of course," he snarled, but Mary didn't flinch. Beside her, Matthew felt hot with shame and rage, his fingers balling into tight fists as Carlisle's tirade went on. "I should have known you were capable of such behaviour, after the Turk-"

"Shut up," Matthew growled, pacing forward to face him, shielding Mary. "I suggest you leave now before saying something you'll regret." Dimly he heard a quiet gasp from one of the ladies, but no one could think to intervene, still too shocked by the revelation and having never imagined such aggression from the normally so peaceable young man.

Richard's eyes narrowed derisively. "Perhaps as you should have done, earlier." He smiled a bitter smile, as Matthew's jaw clenched, every muscle achingly tight. "But I'll go... you're welcome to the filthy harlot-"

The word hadn't fully left his lips before Matthew's fist slammed into his jaw.

Someone screamed but it was all too sudden to stop, as Richard reeled back before launching himself at Matthew in a brief flurry of fists and shouting and powerless attempts to intervene. Fury blinded sense as they grappled, all thought of dignity forgotten and pleas for them to stop unheeded in the chaos. Arms flung and jaws clenched, and it seemed to happen in terrifying slow motion, when they staggered, twisted and fell, and the shouting suddenly faded against the sickening crack of Matthew's head against the cold, hard marble of the fireplace.

For a moment time stood still, suspended, once Richard scrambled to his feet and all anyone could see was dark blood on pale marble and blonde hair, and Matthew's unconscious form lying still.

The long, awful silence was finally broken in a rush as Mary came to her knees by his side and Isobel did too, gently trying to rouse her son, touching fingers gingerly to the back of his head, stroking back his hair.

"I'll go for Clarkson," Edith announced though her voice trembled with shock, and Cora hovered behind.

"Should we move him? The library may be more comfortable-"

"No, not until the doctor's been. It looks much worse than it is, I think," Isobel did her best to reassure them all, herself included, and tightly clasped Mary's hand where they knelt together. "Bring some warm water and cloths and I'll make a start on cleaning it. There'll be... a rather nasty concussion, I'm sure. He should stay here tonight, I hope that's alright."

"I suppose it will have to be. Carson, you'd best fetch Alfred in case we need him, and someone to clear this up," Robert ordered quietly, his expression grim. Unmoving, Violet watched it all unfold, without comment, her mind turning over and over.

When Mary at last looked up, able to tear her eyes from Matthew's pale features only after Isobel's reassurance, she turned her face to her husband with a stony glare.

"Leave," she said stiffly. "I will stay here for this evening, and see you tomorrow."

Still shaken and blinded by the injustice he felt from her slight, Richard only nodded and slipped away, nursing his bloodied, swollen lip. No one spared him a second glance, their concern all turned to Matthew for now, who still lay unresponsive.

* * *

Mary was glad that the bustle preoccupied them all from questioning her any further, for a time, at least. She couldn't deal with it immediately, not when she was numb with shock as she tended to Matthew, her heart pounding with fear for him and the knowledge that now they all knew... _God, they all knew_. She felt sick. But there was too much else to think of for now.

Shortly before Edith returned with Doctor Clarkson, she saw his eyelids flutter.

"Darling?" she whispered without thinking, not caring, not looking at anything else but his face, searching for signs of recognition. She stroked his cheek, her thumb gently brushing his sweat-broken skin. "Matthew, can you hear me?"

Only the quietest groan hummed past his lips, and she saw the briefest glimmer of blue before his eyes closed again. It was something, at least... Her heart contracted painfully as she remembered him like this in the hospital. _Not again, she couldn't bear this again_. She would have to be stronger.

"It's a good sign, my dear," Isobel squeezed her shoulder. Mary nodded tightly, and smiled.

When Clarkson arrived at last, her spirits lifted a little then, more so as Matthew's wound was cleaned and treated, and at last he was moved to bed. Gradually she began to feel more pressure from his fingertips against hers, and his eyes opened for a moment longer, and despite each quiet murmur of pain his lips trembled into a wan smile. They parted a little more, though Mary saw the effort it took.

"Mary..."

"It's alright, darling," she squeezed his hand, at Isobel's encouraging smile.

"Sorry, I... didn't..."

"Stop it," she quietly ordered, smiling to soften her words as her heart pounded with relief to hear him speak. "It's happened, maybe not how we'd planned, but it's done now. Let's concentrate on getting you well and rested."

"Lady Mary is right," Clarkson said kindly. "You'll feel sick, and disoriented for quite a while I'm afraid, so rest is your first order. Try to sleep now, Mr. Crawley, and I'll be in to see you again in the morning."

Matthew went to nod, groaned softly instead, and Mary soothed his brow with a kiss. He seemed so dreadfully pale. Though she was reluctant to leave him, Isobel urged her to do so.

"You need your own rest, it's been a trying evening and you'll need your strength tomorrow to face it all. Matthew will be alright, though it will take some time, he will be - try not to worry too much, my dear."

"I'll try, but that's all I can promise," she shook her head, already knowing that sleep would be far, far from her mind that night. Isobel rubbed her arm.

"That's all that matters. Now go and see Doctor Clarkson out, I'll stay with Matthew."

Mary smiled weakly, recognising the tension in Isobel's body, and desperately grateful for her understanding. But she couldn't avoid that burning truth... that now she did have to face it. Somehow, without Matthew.

She took a deep breath, and went with Clarkson as Edith brought the car back around. She ignored her family, waiting with anxious faces in the hall, as the doctor told them what he could and tried to reassure them, and finally left.

"Isobel's with him still," Mary addressed her mother clearly, as her father and Violet looked on. They could think what they liked, but nothing else mattered to her now.

"Of course she is, and that's quite right. Now, Mary..."

"Is it really true?" Robert asked bluntly.

Mary blinked, and looked at her father. His troubled frown seemed more sad than angry, and she felt the desperate weight of his disappointment as he asked her again. "What Carlisle said... of you, and Matthew. Tell me, Mary, that there is some other way to understand this. Please."

She felt so unbearably tired, but still she met his eyes as she gave a small, exhausted shrug and shook her head.

"I can't, I'm sorry. I don't expect you to understand, or to forgive Matthew or I easily, but it isn't... how we'd wanted things to happen. Any of this," she began to almost laugh, feeling the strain of not only the evening but of everything in the past months suddenly catching up to her. How could they have hoped to go on?

"You're right, I don't understand!" She flinched at Robert's sternness, however expected it may have been. "I don't understand how you can have been so reckless, and stupid - either of you! Do you suppose yourself to be in love with Matthew, now, is that it?"

"I do love him, very much," she answered without hesitation, and Violet caught her eye.

"And I suppose that he is quite in love with you, too," the Dowager Countess said, as if it needed to be asked.

"Yes."

"Then why..." Robert's fingers rubbed fiercely across his brow. "You foolish girl, for God's sake _why _did you marry-"

"Robert, that's enough for now," Cora interrupted him with a hand on his arm. "Quite enough for tonight, we're all tired. We'll have some rest and discuss it all tomorrow, when we've seen how Matthew is."

Mary caught her mother's glance, and not for the first time wondered if she knew _precisely_ why, and Granny... Of course they must know, and she felt a brief burst of indignation that they _knew _and had never said a word, to help her through with it.

"Thank you Mama," she sighed, recognising that now at least her mother understood and was trying to help, in what little way she could. "I'm tired, I'm going to bed."

Cora came to her and clasped her arms, her smile too bright as always, when everything was falling apart around them.

"Alright darling. Your old room is ready, I've already asked Anna to arrangto nightclothes, and something for tomorrow. You'll be alright?"

"Yes, Mama. Goodnight, Papa, and Granny... I'll see you tomorrow."

She watched in disappointment as her father only grunted his acknowledgement, and walked away. Her stomach turned as that feeling crept back, of when she'd been scolded as a little girl, the shame of knowing she'd upset them but stubborn in upholding what she'd done. She sighed wearily. It was different for Matthew, when they'd thought so highly of him - she could face their anger, quite well enough, but Matthew wasn't used to it and didn't deserve it. She didn't know yet how she'd explain it to them, but somehow she would have to find a way.

As Cora followed after the Earl, Mary supposed to try and placate him as much as she could, Violet stepped forward at last, coming to stand before her. Mary raised an eyebrow.

"Are you going to scold me as well?"

"Not quite," Violet touched her arm in peace. "Was it Manchester? I should have suspected, I suppose. It was painfully obvious how the two of you felt, but I must admit I never entertained the thought that you'd be so irresponsible to act upon it."

"Granny-"

"No, my dear, it's alright. What's done is done, and what matters now is how you go forwards from here, particularly as Matthew won't be much help to you for the time being."

Slowly, Mary nodded. "Thank you for that. I'll go and see Richard tomorrow, and can only hope he'll agree to divorce me. I know it isn't the done thing, but I'm sorry, it couldn't go on. Matthew and I had planned to tell him together, but-"

"Perhaps it's best that you can't," Violet suggested calmly. "As tonight has gone to show, the two of them together doesn't seem to work out very well."

"No," Mary couldn't help but chuckle, though it faded quickly when she thought of Matthew again, so hurt. She reminded herself of what Clarkson and Isobel had said, that though he would seem very unwell for a while, with time and rest, he'd be quite alright. He would be. She pressed her lips together and breathed. "I'll probably manage better with him alone, at least I know what he's like."

"Oh my dear, you won't have to manage it alone." Violet smiled, as Mary frowned, confused. "Of course I'm coming too, and together we shall make your husband see sense. Now, go and sleep if you can; tomorrow won't be easy, for anyone."

Her first instinct was to argue, too used to dealing with things on her own, and making the best of it, because she'd always had to. But as Violet looked at her seriously, Mary gave in to the bone-deep tiredness she felt, understanding that to refuse an ally now would be madness. And thank God that at least she _understood_, however cross she might be deep down.

"Thank you," she whispered, and Violet smiled and patted her arm once more, before muttering about the chauffeur taking too long. Mary laughed, and waited until Carson had accompanied her grandmother out, before turning to make her way up the stairs.

"Lady Mary," the butler called behind her, and Mary stopped, and turned, her hand upon the banister.

"Yes, Carson?" She smiled, a sign of peace and apology after the chaos of the evening. Poor Carson, she thought, it all had gone against every sort of behaviour he must think decent and proper.

"I hope, very much, that you're alright, milady."

There was such kindness in his eyes, even behind the deep, heavy frown, and Mary felt her throat constrict with threatening tears that desperately needed release.

"Oh, Carson. I will be, yes. And thank you, so much."

She fled up the stairs before he could see her tears begin to fall.

Before she'd reached her old bedroom, her feet carried her instinctively to the room where Matthew lay. It was darkened, and she saw Isobel asleep in the chair by his side. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she sniffed, moved to perch on the bed, and took Matthew's hand.

In sleep, his face was so peaceful, and perhaps it was only the darkness but she thought he didn't seem quite so pale, his skin less clammy than before. She touched his face, mindful of the bandage around his head, and leaned down to press her lips softly to his.

A tiny flicker of happiness, or relief, whispered within her soul. Now she felt no shame in kissing him, in tightly holding his hand, because there was nothing to be ashamed of. However uncertain the future might be, however Richard might resist it, she knew with conviction that nothing would keep her from him now.

"Goodnight, darling," she breathed against his lips, her thumb brushing his cheek once more before she stood up, and she felt the slightest squeeze of his fingers.

Matthew coughed, a quiet grunt of painful effort, as his eyes flickered open.

"Goodnight," he managed to whisper, and faintly smiled. Mary's smile in return was breathtaking, and she stroked his hand in comfort until his breathing calmed and steadied once more, and she was sure he was asleep.

He wouldn't be happy about her going to see Richard in the morning, she knew, not without him. But it couldn't wait until he was well enough to go with her, and Granny had been right, perhaps she would get further with Richard without him. Perhaps it would be like a storm, fierce and frightening while it lasted, but over soon and afterwards there would be calm, and peace... and dare she hope, happiness, at last?

Taking a deep breath, she looked at Matthew one last time, and made her way to bed. After Richard, of course, there'd be the storm of her family and society to face... but she would brave them.

After some sleep, at least.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _And there we are for now. I'm sorry about Matthew - truly I am! Please don't worry, he does just have concussion and will be alright - thanks to miscreantrose for her invaluable medical details! As I said earlier, this is just how this scene had always played out to me, and I had to stay true to it - I hope you'll forgive me!_

_Of course I'm curious as ever to know what you thought - thank you so much for reading! :)_


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _Happy day-after-trailer day? :D My new job starts tomorrow (how did that come around so quickly?! Eep!) so here is an offering before I begin..._

_My continued thanks for all your lovely support, and especially to those who've helped this chapter on the way - you're darlings and I love you!_

_Enjoy...!_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Sleep had not brought Mary any comfort. What it had brought, however, was a strengthened determination to act without distraction. Forgoing the ordeal of a family breakfast, considering what they now knew of her, she rang Anna for a tray and dressed quickly, with purpose. In the pale light of morning Mary looked long and hard at herself in the mirror, appraising the image she presented. Though the dress and coat had not been worn since before her wedding, she thought that quite fitting, and when fixed up with a brooch and scarf the result was rather pleasing. She looked younger, fresher, more confident, somehow. Mary wondered how much of that was to do with the clothes, or whether her own attitude and Anna's expertise were more to thank.

"Will I do, Anna, do you think?" She tucked a stray hair into place and took a final dab of perfume, straightening her back.

"I think you look very smart, milady, and very sure of yourself. So yes, I do."

Mary turned and smiled. "Well it's all down to you, so thank you. I suppose I mustn't put it off any longer, and really, it's about time."

"If you've been unhappy, milady, then yes I think it is," Anna said seriously. Mary had told her the essentials of what had happened, and why, and wasn't surprised to find her old companion both understanding and sympathetic. She'd also been assured by the maid that Carson had put a firm stop to any gossiping amongst the servants, and though she doubted the success of his efforts, she was touched by the gesture. Warmth nestled around her heart at the sense of _home_ she felt here, back where she belonged, in contrast to the coldness she'd always felt at Haxby in the stiff, professional politeness of their staff. Of course Richard had always preferred it that way.

She shivered, and tightened her coat a little around herself. "Well, I'm going. Wish me luck!"

"Good luck, milady," Anna smiled then added a little more cautiously, "Will you... be seeing Mr. Crawley on your way out? I did see Mrs. Crawley while I was doing the rooms this morning, but she said he hadn't woken yet after a few times in the night."

Her brave smile wavered. "No, I thought perhaps not. If I had to own up to where I'm going, he'd throw up all sorts of a fuss, and I don't want him worried."

"If you think that's best, then," Anna said, nodding to herself, her opinion reserved. Mary watched her for a moment, the carefully neutral expression that offered support without judgement, and dismissed any last traces of doubt. Of course she wanted Matthew's support, as he'd so earnestly promised to give, but after what had happened that promise was simply not possible to uphold. Perhaps it was for the best anyway. Matthew wouldn't think so. He would insist that she wait or would try to come along and of course he couldn't, and then he'd only fret the morning away, upsetting his recovery. No, it was safer to not risk seeing him at all until she was back and it was dealt with.

Even so, as she made to leave with quick, determined steps, she wavered a moment outside the door of the bedroom he'd been taken to the evening before. It was slightly ajar, and she angled herself just enough to glimpse the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and his hand resting by his side, fingers flexing in his sleep. Fondly, she remembered them doing the same while she'd lain by his side during their stolen night together.

She left the house with a small, comforted smile gracing her lips.

* * *

The drive to Haxby seemed long. It had always seemed a long, arduous journey, to return to the unfeeling house. Today it seemed to take longer than ever before, as coldness settled like a weight in her chest.

She felt Violet's eyes on her, watchful as always, and turned.

"Yes?" she sighed, ready for only one argument today. What was to come with Richard would be ordeal enough.

"I presume you have a plan of attack," Violet probed. "You know him better than I, of course, but even I know your husband won't be put off easily."

"Not easily at all." She stared out of the window, at the familiar trees and landscape that passed, sights she had called her home, though it had never felt as such. "But I hope I know him well enough to convince him that divorce is in his best interests, not just Matthew's and mine."

Violet's lip quirked. "You're not appealing to his better nature, then? My, what a surprise."

"It's not... that he doesn't have one," Mary shook her head. "I just know it wouldn't be nearly so effective as appealing to his pride."

She glanced to her side, and saw Violet nod approvingly. Though it was what they had wounded the most, she could only hope now that it was Richard's pride that would save them. She desperately hoped that it would.

* * *

She held her breath as she pulled the bell, overshadowed by the forbidding doorway. It felt as though she'd always held her breath, returning here, but the promise of this being the last time was enough to drive her onward. Only when Barrow pulled back the door did she exhale, slowly, her expression carefully schooled against their butler's own flinch of surprise.

Mary wondered what Richard had told them when she hadn't returned with him last night, or appeared for breakfast this morning. That was assuming he'd returned home at all, on his own and in shame.

"Good morning Barrow," she smiled, standing as tall as she could. "Is Sir Richard in at the moment?"

"I believe he's busy in the morning room, milady, but..." The young butler was obviously not used to inviting a lady into her own home. Mary was almost amused, but the smile on her lips tightened with determination.

"Please, tell him I'm here. I think he'll understand."

Politely she waited as he glanced between her and the Dowager, before a quick nod and he turned on his heel to find Sir Richard. Mary hadn't offered to pass over their coats and hats; it wasn't a social call after all. Beckoning to Violet to follow, she moved into the lofty hall, their footsteps on the marble echoing in sharp clicks to the ceiling high above.

"How cosy," Violet muttered under her breath, and Mary withheld a shiver.

Barely a minute had passed when Barrow reappeared, with a curious frown.

"Please go through, Lady Mary, your Ladyship."

"Thank you." Mary's reply was curt, and both women waited until the butler had reluctantly disappeared before they went in through the open door at the end of the hall.

Inside, Richard stood by the window, his back straight and proud, refusing to acknowledge their presence until the door had clicked firmly closed. Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes. Even in the smallest of ways, he was determined to set his own rules, it seemed, though she found she could hardly blame him.

"Hello Richard," she said, her tone wearied before they had even begun. Her lips parted to say more, but suddenly she found that she didn't know what to say. Was she supposed to apologise for what had happened, or to thank him for seeing her? Breeding and her nature told her to do so, but she couldn't bring herself to comply.

"Lady Mary." He turned slowly, his cold grey eyes glancing across both her and Violet, taking his time before speaking again. "Back to the cold and the careful, I see."

"Don't you think that's best?"

He shrugged. "I suppose so. You've not brought the reinforcements I'd expected. How is Mr. Crawley today?"

There was a tightness behind his words, which Mary realised was driven by fear. Of course, he hadn't seen Matthew regain consciousness. Matthew could be in any state for all he knew, and by his own hand. She drew a smile through thin-pressed lips.

"I haven't seen him this morning, I wouldn't know." She let him consider this for a moment longer before continuing. "But before leaving last night, Doctor Clarkson seemed to think he'd be alright, given time. Thank you for your concern."

He scoffed and turned to Violet, who hadn't yet spoken and so far seemed quite content to listen.

"So Mary has brought you instead; I'm sure you have a great deal of opinion on the private matters of our marriage but-"

"No, no," she held a hand up to quiet him, and he pressed his lips tightly together. "I'm here simply as moral support. Be assured that I do have a great deal of opinion on it indeed, but I'll keep it to myself. Not that there seems any great need to bother about the privacy of your marriage, after your little exhibition last night."

"Granny, please," Mary said quickly as she saw Richard's eyes narrow in distaste. "Let's not make this more difficult than it already is."

"Yes it is all rather _difficult_ for you, isn't it, now that your sordid little affair is out in the open." A cold sneer painted Richard's face, his words, the very air around him, the chill of it bleeding into the room and making Mary shiver. "What a mockery your lover has made of his precious honour. Tell me, Mary, what exactly do you expect to happen now?"

Still he remained standing by the window, his arrogance an attempt to command the situation and making Mary's skin crawl. In defiance she sat down, perching on a stiff, upholstered chair with hands clasped neatly in her lap as Violet followed her example.

"I don't know what I expect to happen." To be forced to an admission was irritating, but she passed it off with a shrug. "What I hope will happen is that you will be reasonable and see that our marriage can't go on."

"Oh it can't, can it?" He leaned toward her, his voice laden with scorn. "Remind me why that is, precisely?"

Her throat was dry. _Stay calm_. "You know why, Richard."

"Of course," he snapped. "Our marriage must fail because you couldn't control yourself, because you could not resist when Matthew Crawley decided it suited him to have you-"

"Richard."

"My God, Mary, did we _ever_ have a chance?" A sharp edge cut through his bitterness, causing Mary to flinch at the uncomfortable truth.

She could kick herself for it now. For falling prey to his threats, believing that he would destroy her, her own weakness of giving in to what she thought would be security for her future, believing that Matthew had written them off as cursed. Well, hadn't he? Mary sought her resolve. There had been no other choice, but the blame belonged to them all.

"We might have, at one time. Perhaps we didn't, for all sorts of reasons," she said calmly, holding his gaze without fear. "That doesn't matter so much as what happens now - I'm asking for a divorce; surely you see that's best."

Richard laughed, loud and long. Mary watched him, refusing him the satisfaction of a reaction, only glancing beside her to gauge her grandmother's disapproval of his response.

At last his laughter calmed, and he made a show of wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Mary felt the slap of his mockery but withstood it, her fingers tightly clenched in her lap as he spoke.

"Divorce, and grant you the freedom to marry him? You know me too well for that, Mary."

She smiled, her answer well prepared. "I also know you well enough to know that you couldn't stand the shame of keeping a wife whom everyone knew preferred another. Neither of us could sit through dinner with my family again, or be served by our own staff even, pretending that our marriage is anything more than a sham. Think of how they would pity you."

Richard shook his head, dismissing her. "You misunderstand me. I have no objection to your leaving this house - believe me, the shame of that will be yours and not mine. But, divorce? No. Legally, you will remain bound to me."

"You can't be serious," Mary started, feeling her agitation rise and for the first time, unable to hold it in check, though her tone revealed more panic than anger. She felt her grandmother's warning glance and took a deep breath to steel herself. "If you think that _legal_ detail will keep Matthew and I apart when it hasn't done so already, I'm afraid you're mistaken." Oh, they'd joked about it, passed it off as a hopeless fantasy. But could they really be together in defiance of her marriage like that? The bluff would have to be convincing enough.

"You're forgetting something." The sharpness of his voice had become very low, and dangerous. He sat down at the desk beneath the window, and fixed Mary in his gaze through narrowed eyes. "You gave me the power to destroy you. If you insist upon flaunting a relationship with Crawley, then I will show the world what filth you really are, _Lady_ Mary."

"Oh, I have never forgotten it," Mary said with conviction. His power over her had been the constant companion to her every thought, from the moment she'd told him her secret. As such, his threat bore no surprise, and she straightened her back. "I hope then you will find satisfaction in declaring to the world what a fool you were to marry me, and earning its pity."

His eyes widened and for the first time, and Mary's lips hovered upward into a smile for the small victory she'd claimed, even if it would only amount to having surprised him for a moment. Richard's fingers flexed restlessly upon the polished wood of the desk, nails scratching into the grain.

"I'm afraid Mary is right." Violet affixed him with a look of unforgiving reproof, her voice sharp and stern. "If you expose her for taking Matthew as a lover as well as the unfortunate Mr. Pamuk, you make yourself out to be a naive, idealistic madman unable to let her go. Hardly the impression a respectable newspaper owner wants to give to society. You will have the world's pity but certainly not its sympathy or understanding."

"You suppose of course that I care about _society_ for myself," Richard bit out at last, though the threat of failure now laced his tone.

Recognising his agitation, Mary found herself softening somehow, even as she hardened to press her case. She felt sorry for him, and the helpless position she was forcing him into, though perhaps she had forced him there a long time ago. Hadn't he deserved it, blackmailing her into marriage? Her wedding band seemed cold and tight now. If he hadn't protected her story, she'd have faced scandal long ago, and he had kept his word, treating her well. But he hadn't ever understood her, or even tried. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, remembering his proposal. How little of romance there had been, or of love; it had always been about power between them, the strength of her name and his money, and that was all. They had used each other, and she couldn't be any more sorry for him than she was for herself.

"Let's not pretend otherwise, Richard." She was calmer, now, cooler. Sure of herself once more, and of where they both stood, what they both wanted. There was no point in being angry about it. "You want power to go with your fortune, and there's no shame in that, but you must have respect to go with it. You won't earn that by dragging my name through the dirt like a petty schoolboy."

"But you're asking for a divorce, instead?" His bitter laugh returned, darkening his features with a glowering threat. "Do you suppose you'll escape that without shame, when you must stand up in court and admit what you've done?"

"I will bear it," she said firmly, hoping that she was strong enough to convince him, strong enough to convince herself. She would not give up now, she would not give Matthew up, she _could not_. "So will Matthew, and so will you. Society will know of the affair whatever happens, but the only way to make it _proper_ for all of us is if you divorce me."

He glared at her, furious, the desire to punish her burning like a flame in his eyes. "I'm not convinced it would be worth it."

"Please," her voice wavered. How she hated to resort to this, to pleading with him, but no more reason would appeal. "For your own sake as much as ours."

_Ours_. She saw him flinch, and her breath caught in her throat. They were married, they should be the unit, the us, the team. But they never had been. It had always been Matthew, in her heart, and now she trembled to think of it and claim him so openly. Whatever happened now, she and Matthew would face it together. Whether Richard divorced her or not, she would be with him. Could she be? _Sybil_... Sybil was happy, Sybil was free, Sybil... had done nothing wrong besides marrying a man of lower class. How could it be the same, to be with Matthew whilst still bound legally to Richard? Could they live that way together? The impossibility of it once more weighed her down, the sting of tears threatening to fall, as her eyes begged him to understand.

"You can hardly expect me to agree to it now," Richard hissed quietly, leaning back in his chair. "You may not believe it but I loved you, Mary. What more could I have done? Not only did I love you but I gave you everything you could possibly want. There was nothing I denied you, nothing I would have denied you. I protected you, I saved you, and your family from scandal, and now you turn and throw it in my face and expect me to set you free? You have no right."

Mary shook her head, becoming more passionate, more sincere. "I am grateful for all that, truly I am. I don't pretend to be innocent in this, and I am sorry, for what it's worth. It was never my intention to injure you."

"But you have done. And what you've done cannot be forgiven."

Her lips parted to plead with him again, but before she was able to, Violet had intervened. Her voice bore the authority that would stand for no argument as she leaned forward in her seat, hands braced neatly atop her cane. She paid no heed to Mary, addressing Richard as if in confidence while the younger woman looked on.

"Perhaps it won't be forgiven, and perhaps it shouldn't be," she said, "certainly not by you. Of course you want their indiscretion punished, you're quite right, they have injured you. But if you want to make them pay for it, you must see that divorce is the way to do it. File for divorce, and have it be on your terms, all charges included, and you will come out of it with far more honour than you would by remaining married to a woman of scandal. Society will understand that."

Mary felt her cheeks colour sharply at her grandmother's words. _A woman of scandal_, Matthew tarred by the same brush, both of them dishonoured with Richard playing the injured party. Her stomach churned to think of it. It was everything she'd feared, for so long, the very reputation she'd married Richard to avoid! And yet it was not the same. Matthew was not Kemal, Matthew was still alive and loved her, they'd been together and loved each other in spite of her marriage. Somehow, she hoped that would be judged a little more acceptably than an unmarried young woman taking a foreigner into her bed who had the gall to die there.

She swallowed against the bile in her throat and met her husband's eyes, willing him to believe that he could ruin her. If sacrifice to his pride was the price to pay to be free of him, it would be a bitter pill to swallow, but it would be worth it. For a moment as she met Richard's testing gaze, she allowed her mind to drift back to the night she'd spent with Matthew, how happy they had been, how intimately he knew and understood her, how he loved her, despite all their failings in the past. Yes, it would be worth it.

She watched Richard rest his elbows upon the desk, fingers steepled together as he thought. Her grandmother's words had been harsh, but played so well to his pride and ambition, even though it must go against his every inclination to give in to what they wanted. When he spoke at last it was quiet and calculated.

"You put forth a convincing argument, ladies," he said. For a moment, a flicker of hope brightened Mary's eyes. Richard sighed, a show of regret as he shook his head. "But I'm afraid it isn't a decision I can jump to lightly. I think it's best if you leave now, and when I've considered the matter some more I will inform you of what I intend to do."

The hope faded as quickly as it had appeared, crushed and scattered, broken, like their marriage. His frown was set firm, unrelenting, and Mary's heart sank under the weight of defeat as she knew they would get no further today. Any more argument would only set him more staunchly against their aim, she was sure.

Slowly, she stood up, tightly clasping her purse to steady her limbs, denying him the satisfaction of seeing her disappointment.

"I'll be staying at the Abbey; you can reach me there."

"Very well. Give my regards to Mr. Crawley, won't you." He raised his eyebrows in a thin, mocking smile, moving to ring the bell for Barrow. The butler appeared within moments, and as Richard requested that the ladies' car be brought to the front of the house, Violet rose from her seat as well.

While Mary had followed Barrow out into the hall without a further word of goodbye to her husband, the Dowager Countess lingered a moment more, lowering her voice to Richard.

"I do advise you to think carefully, Sir Richard, about what you might gain from each course of action. It is a messy business of course, but I'm quite sure that whatever you do won't prevent them from being together, which is naturally where your objection lies. All you can do now is try to come out of the mess as clean as you can for yourself - rather than trying to muddy Mary's name more. I trust you will see that divorce is the only way to salvage your own reputation from it, if you look into the matter properly."

Richard smirked, and shook his head, leaning against the mantelpiece as if he couldn't care less. "I assure you, I will do what is best for myself, Lady Grantham. Now, I believe your car will be waiting."

Violet's nose wrinkled to a derisive sniff, and she walked away.

In the car, Mary sat despondently, staring out of the window through glassy, unfocussed eyes. She startled when Violet touched her arm.

"You must have faith," she said gently. "He wasn't very likely to agree to it there and then - a man like Richard must have the last word in his own house. You'll see, he will come round. He's too clever to act otherwise."

Mary chuckled in sad acknowledgement. "I hope you're right. But at what cost, I wonder? A woman of scandal, and Matthew fallen with me? It won't be easy to live with."

"No, it won't, for any of us. But it's the lowest cost you could have hoped for. Society looks upon love affairs more kindly now than in the past, I think. Let's hope so, anyway, my dear."

Mary smiled weakly, turning the phrase over in her mind. _A love affair._ She hadn't quite thought of it like that, before. Yes, she had been unfaithful, but not because of lust or a wanton disregard for her marriage. She'd been unfaithful because she loved Matthew - _a love affair _- because the world seemed a little more right when they were together.

Her heart warmed once more at this perception of things, and as the car drew closer to Downton once Violet had been taken home, she felt a flutter of excitement that Matthew was here too, and she could be with him, her lover, her love.

By the time the gravel crunched under tyres at the doorway of Downton as the car came to a halt, Mary's wedding and engagement rings had been consigned with determination to her purse, her finger freed of their tight, binding hold. Richard might or might not agree to divorce her, she thought, almost trembling at the step she had taken, but their marriage was over. Of that, she had no doubt.

Her steps felt lighter as her heels clicked into the hall, and she took off her hat, feeling the freedom of her shorter hair as her fingers ran through it.

"Mary, is that you?" She heard her mother's voice before she saw her, coming out of the drawing room with a nervous smile lighting her features. "We wondered where you'd been."

"Hello, Mama." Mary kissed her cheek. "Granny and I went to see Richard."

"To... salvage things? I'm sure if you could explain that it was a mistake, he'd be reasonable and-"

"Are you mad? Heavens, no! I have made many mistakes in my life, but being with Matthew was not one of them. There is nothing with Richard to salvage, Mama."

"But, Mary..." Cora frowned, soothing, coercing. "You can't be thinking of divorce? There'd be such a fuss, and what would people think? I know we haven't always got on with Sir Richard but he has protected you. Or at least, I had begun to assume that was why you married him, and he has kept his word so far."

Hot frustration coursed through Mary at her mother's lack of understanding. Even now, when she knew the hold Richard had over her, she would make her sacrifice her happiness to go on with it? Once, Mary would have done so too, but not any more. Not now.

"I'm sorry, truly I am, for the scandal it will no doubt bring." Mary's voice trembled with determined sincerity, and reluctant acceptance began to dawn in Cora's eyes. "But it will die down, and I will not stay married to a man who I can't stand. Not when Matthew and I might have a chance, now. Please, understand that, Mama."

It was some time before Cora nodded, clasping her daughter's hand in a gentle, comforting reassurance. "Well, my darling. Give it some time, we'll see what happens."

"Thank you," Mary sighed, hesitantly returning her embrace. In time, her family would see, that this was her only way forward. It had to be with Matthew, whatever may come. "How is Matthew? Has Clarkson been again?"

"Yes, just half an hour ago. Isobel's returned home too, they seemed to be pleased he's improving as expected."

"Oh, good. I'd better go and see him, and tell him how I got on this morning if he's up to it." If Isobel had felt able to leave him, Mary supposed that must be a good sign - but improving as expected might mean anything at all.

"Mary-" Cora made to stop her.

"What?"

"It's just that... Well, your Papa is speaking with Matthew just now."

The caution was clearly a warning, but Mary just shrugged her shoulders, tired of succumbing to the whim and direction of others.

"Well as it seems likely they'll be talking about me, I don't think my interruption should matter too much." However Matthew was feeling, she was quite sure her father's temper wasn't something he should be facing yet, so soon after such an injury to his head.

She hurried up the stairs, without care for the propriety or not of going to his bedroom, eager to see him and stave off any argument.

**TBC**

* * *

A/N: _There we are, and thank you so much for reading! To those who've mentioned concern that the story may be ending soon since Mary's marriage is over - never fear, if people would like, there's an awful lot more I could explore before wrapping up. Do let me know, and as ever I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you!_


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